



^H 1 1 



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THE 



POETICAL WORKS 



OF 



ALFRED TENNYSON, 



POET LAUREATE. 



COMPLETE EDITION. 




BOSTON : 
TICKNOR AND FIELDS. 

1867. 



7f. 



SS£ 



It is my wish that with Messrs. Ticknor and Fields alone 
the right of publishing my books in America should rest. 



ALFRED TENNYSON. 






University Press : Welch, Bigelow, & Co., 
Cambridge. 



/ 



CONTENTS. 



Poems (Published 1830) : — page 

To the Queen . 1 

Claribel 1 

Lilian *. . . 2 

Isabel 2 

Mariana 3 

To 4 

Madeline . : 4 

Song. — The Owl 5 

Second Song : 5 

Recollections of the Arabian Nights 5 

Ode to Memory 7 

Song 8 

Adeline 9 

A Character 9 

The Poet 10 

The Poet's Mind xi 

The Sea-Fairies 11 

The Deserted House 12 

The Dying Swan 12 

A Dirge 13 

Love and Death 13 

The Ballad of Oriana 14 

Circumstance 15 

The Merman 15 

The Mermaid 16 

Sonnet to J. M. K 16 

Poems (Published 1832) : — 

The Lady of Shalott . 17 

Mariana in the South 19 

Eleanore 20 

The Miller's Daughter 22 



iv CONTENTS. 

Fatima 25 

CEnone 25 

The Sisters 30 

To 30 

The Palace of Art 30 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere 35 

The May Queen 36 

New- Year's Eve 37 

Conclusion 38 

The Lotos-Eaters 39 

A Dream of Fair Women 42 

Margaret 47 

The Blackbird 48 

The Death of the Old Year 48 

To J. S 49 

" You ask me why, tho' ill at ease " 50 

" Of old sat Freedom on the heights "... 50 

" Love thou thy land, with love far-brought " 51 

The Goose 52 

English Idyls and other Poems (Published 1842): — 

The Epic 53 

Morte d' Arthur 54 

The Gardener's Daughter ; or, The Pictures ....'.... 59 

Dora 63 

Audley Court 66 

Walking to the Mail 67 

Edwin Morris ; or, The Lake 69 

St. Simeon Stylites 72 

The Talking Oak 75 

Love and Duty 79 

The Golden Year 80 

Ulysses . 82 

Locksley Hall 83 

Godiva Sj 

The Two Voices 88 

The Day-Dream 94 

Amphion 98 

St. Agnes 99 

Sir Galahad 99 



CONTENTS. v 

Edward Gray ioo 

Will Waterproof's Lyrical Monologue 101 

To , after reading a Life and Letters 104 

To E. L., on his Travels in Greece 104 

Lady Clare 104 

The Lord of Burleigh 106 

Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere 107 

A Farewell 107 

The Beggar Maid 107 

The Vision of Sin 107 

" Come not, when 1 am dead " no 

The Eagle no 

" Move eastward, happy Earth, and leave " in 

"Break, break, break" in 

The Poet's Song in 

The Princess: A Medley 112 

In Memoriam 169 

Maud, and other Poems : — 

Maud 205 

The Brook; an Idyl . 226 

The Letters : 229 

a Ode on the Death of the Duke of Wellington ......... 230 

The Daisy 234 

To the Rev. F. D. Maurice 235 

Will 235 

The Charge of the Light Brigade 236 

Idyls of the King: — ■ 

Dedication 237 

Enid 238 

Vivien 268 

Elaine 282 

Guinevere 306 

Enoch Arden 318 

Additional Poems : — 

Aylmer's Field 334 

Sea Dreams 348 



vi CONTENTS. 

The Grandmother 353 

Northern Farmer 356 

Tithonus 358 

The Voyage • 360 

In the Valley of Cauteretz 361 

The Flower 361 

Requiescat 361 

The Sailor-Boy 361 

The Islet 362 

The Ringlet 362 

A Welcome to Alexandra 363 

Ode sung at the Opening of the International Exhibition 363 

A Dedication 364 

The Captain ; a Legend of the Navy 364 

Three Sonnets to a Coquette 365 

On a Mourner 366 

Song 366 

Song 366 

Experiments : — 

Boadicea ; 367 

In Quantity 369 

Specimen of a Translation of the Iliad in Blank Verse 37° 



POEMS. 



(published 1830.) 



TO THE QUEEN. 

Revered, beloved — you tjiat hold 

A nobler office upon earth 

Than arms, or power of brain or birth 
Could give the warrior kings of old, 

Victoria, — since your Royal grace 
To one of less desert allows 
This laurel greener from the brows 

Of him that utter'd nothing base ; 

And should your greatness, and the care 
That yokes with empire, yield you 

time 
To make demand of modern rhyme 

If aught of ancient worth be there ; 

Then — while a sweeter music wakes, 
And thro' wild March the throstle 

calls, 
Where all about your palace-walls 

The sun-lit almond-blossom shakes — 

Take, Madam, this poor book of song ; 
For tho' the faults were thick as dust 
In vacant chambers, I could trust 

Your kindness. May you rule us long, 

And leave us rulers of your blood 
As noble till the latest day ! 
May children of our children say, 

" She wrought her people lasting good ; 

" Her court was pure ; her life serene ; 
God gave her peace ; her land re- 
posed ; 
A thousand claims to reverence 
closed 
In her as Mother, Wife, and Queen ; 



" And statesmen at her council met 
Who knew the seasons, when to 

take 
Occasion by the hand, and make 

The bounds of freedom wider yet 

" By shaping some august decree, 
Which kept her throne unshaken 

still, 
Broad-based upon her people's will, 

And compass'd by the inviolate sea." 
March, 1851. 



CLARIBEL. 

A MELODY. 
I. 

Where Claribel low-lieth 
The breezes pause and die, 
Letting the rose-leaves fall : 
But the solemn oak-tree sigheth, 
Thick-leaved, ambrosial, 
With an ancient melody 
.Of an inward agony, 
Where Claribel low-lieth. 



At eve the beetle boometh 
Athwart the thicket lone : 

At noon the wild bee hummeth 
About the moss'd headstone : 

At midnight the moon cometh, 
And looketh down alone. 

3- 

Her song the lintwhite swelleth, 

The clear-voiced mavis dwelleth, 

The callow throstle lispeth, 



LILIAN. — ISABEL. 



The slumbrous wave outwelleth, 
The babbling runnel crispeth, 
The hollow grot replieth 
Where Claribel low-lieth. 



LILIAN. 



Airy, fairy Lilian, 

Flitting, fairy Lilian, 
When I ask her if she love me, 
Claps her tiny hands above me, 

Laughing all she can ; 
She '11 not tell me if she love me, 

Cruel little Lilian. 



When my passion seeks 

Pleasance in love-sighs 
She, looking thro' and thro' me 
ThorouglnV to undo me, 

Smilftfe, never speaks : 
So innocent-arch, so cunning-simple, 
From beneath her gather'd wimple 
Glancing with black-beaded eyes, 
Till the lightning laughters dimple 

The baby-roses in her cheeks ; 
Then away she flies. 



Prythee weep, May Lilian ! 
Gayety without eclipse 

Wearieth me, May Lilian : 
Thro' my very heart it thrill eth 

When from crimson-threaded lips 
Silver-treble laughter trilleth : 

Prythee weep, May Lilian. 

4- 

Praying all I can, 
If prayers will not hush thee, 

Airy Lilian, 
Like a rose-leaf I will crush thee, 

Fairy Lilian. 



ISABEL. 



Eyes not down-dropt nor over-bright, 
but fed 
With the clear-pointed flame of chas- 
tity, 



Clear, without heat, undying, tended 
by 
Pure vestal thoughts in the trans- 
lucent fane 
Of her still spirit; locks not wide- 
dispread, 
Madonna-wise on either side her 

head ; 
Sweet lips whereon perpetually 
did reign 
The summer calm of golden charity, 
Were fixed shadows of thy fixed mood, 
Revered Isabel, the crown and 
head, 
The stately flower of female fortitude, 
Of perfect wifehood and pure low- 
iihead. 



The intuitive decision of a bright 
And thorough-edged intellect to part 
Error from crime ; a prudence to 

withhold ; 
The laws of marriage character'd 
in gold 
Upon the blanched tablets of her 
heart ; 
A love still burning upward, giving 

light 
To read those laws ; an accent very low 
In blandishment, but a most silver flow 
Of subtle-paced counsel in distress, 
Right to the heart and brain, tho' un- 
descried, 
Winning its way with extrenle 
gentleness 
Thro' all the outworks of suspicious 

pride ; 
A courage to endure and to obey ; 
A hate of gossip parlance, and of sway, 
Crown'd Isabel, thro' all her placid life, 
The queen of marriage, a most perfect 
wife. 



The mellow'd reflex of a winter moon ; 
A clear stream flowing with a muddy 
one, 
Till in its onward current it absorbs 
With swifter movement and in 
purer light 
The vexed eddies of its way- 
ward brother : 
A leaning and upL earing parasite, 



MARIANA. 



Clothing the stem, which else had 
fallen quite, 
With cluster'd flower-bells and am- 
'brosial orbs 
Of rich fruit-bunches leaning on 

each other — 
Shadow forth thee : — the world 
hath not another 
(Though all her fairest forms are 

types of thee, 
And thou of God in thy great charity) 
Of such a finish'd chasten'd purity. 



MARIANA. 

I Mariana in the moated grange." 

Measure for Measure. 

With blackest moss the flower-plots 
Were thickly crusted, one and all : 
The rusted nails fell from the knots 
That held the peach to the garden- 
wall. 
The broken sheds look'd sad and 
strange : 
Unlifted was the clinking latch ; 
Weeded and worn the ancient thatch 
Upon the lonely moated grange. 

She only said, " My life is dreary, 

He cometh not," she said ; 

She said, " I am aweary, aweary, 

I would that I were dead ! " 

Her tears fell with the dews at even ; 
Her tears fell ere the dews were 
dried ; 
She could not look on the sweet heaven, 

Either at morn or eventide. 
After the flitting of the bats, 
When thickest dark did trance the 

sky, 
She drew her casement-curtain by, 
And glanced athwart the glooming flats. 
She only said, " The night is 
dreary, 
He cometh not," she said ; 
She said, " I am aweary, aweary, 
I would that I were dead ! " 

Upon the middle of the night, 
Waking she heard the night-fowl 
crow : 
The cock sung out an hour ere light : 



From the dark fen the oxen's low 
Came to her : without hope of change, 
In sleep she seem'd to walk forlorn, 
Till cold winds woke the gray- eyed 
morn 
About the lonely moated grange. 

She only said, " The day is dreary, 

He cometh not," she said ; 

She said, " I am aweary, aweary, 

I would that I were dead ! " 

About a stone-cast from the wall 

A sluice with blacken'd waters slept, 
And o'er it many, round and small, 

The cluster'd marish-mosses crept. 
Hard by a poplar shook alway, 
All silver-green with gnarled bark : 
For leagues no other tree did mark 
The level waste, the rounding gray. 
She only said, "My life is dreary, 

He cometh not," she said ; 

She said, " I am aweary, aweary, 

I would that I were dead ! " 

And ever when the moon was low, 
And the shrill winds were up and 
away, 
In the white curtain, to and fro, 

She saw the gusty shadow sway. 
But when the moon was very low, 
And wild winds bound within their 

cell, 
The shadow of the poplar fell 
Upon her bed, across her brow. 

She only said, "The night is 
dreary, 
He cometh not," she said ; 
She said, " I am aweary, aweary, 
I would that I were dead ! " 

All day within the dreamy house, 

The doors upon their hinges creak'd ; 
The blue fly sung in the pane ; the 
mouse 
Behind the mouldering wainsco# 
shriek'd, 
Or from the crevice peer'd about. 
Old faces glimmer'd thro' the doors, 
Old footsteps trod the upper floors, 
Old voices called her from without. 
She only said, "My life is dreary, 

He cometh not," she said ; 

She said, " I am aweary, aweary, 

I would that I were dead 1 " 



MADELINE. 



The sparrow's chirrup on the roof, 

The slow clock ticking, and the sound 
Which to the wooing wind aloof 

The poplar made, did all confound 

Her sense ; but most she loathed the 

hour 

When the thick-moted sunbeam lay 

•■» Athwart the chambers, and the day 

Was sloping toward his western bower. 

Then, said she, " I am very dreary, 

He will not come," she said ; 
She wept, " I am aweary, aweary, 
O God, that I were dead ! " 



TO 



Clear-headed friend, whose joyful 
scorn, 
Edged with sharp laughter, cuts 
atwain 
The knots that tangle human 
creeds, 
The wounding cords that bind and 
strain 
The heart until it bleeds, 
Ray-fringed eyelids of the morn 

Roof not a glance so keen as thine : 
If aught of prophecy be mine, 
Thou wilt not live in vain. 

2. 
Low-cowering shall the Sophist sit ; 
Falsehood shall bare her plaited 

brow : 
Fair-fronted Truth shall droop not 
now 
With shrilling shafts of subtle wit. 
Nor martyr-flames, nor trenchant 
swords 
Can do away that ancient lie ; 
A gentler death shall Falsehood die, 
Shot thro' and thro' with cunning 
words. 

3 : 
Weak Truth a-leaning'on her crutch, 
Wan, wasted Truth in her utmost 

need, 
Thy kingly intellect shall feed, 
Until she be an athlete bold, 
And weary with a finger's touch 
Those writhed limbs of lightning 
speed ; 



Like that strange angel which of 
old, 
Until the breaking of the light, 
Wrestled with wandering Israel, 
Past Yabbok brook the livelong 
night, 
And heaven's mazed signs stood still 
In the dim tract of Penuel. 



MADELINE. 

Thou art not steep'd in golden lan- 
guors, 
No tranced summer calm is thine, 

Ever varying Madeline. 
Thro' light and shadow thou dost 

range, 
Sudden glances, sweet and strange, 
Delicious spites and darling angers, 
And airy forms of flitting change. 

2. 

Smiling, frowning, evermore, 
Thou art perfect in love-lore. 
Revealings deep and clear are thine 
Of wealthy smiles : but who may know 
Whether smile or frown be fleeter? 
Whether smile or frown be sweeter, 

Who may know ? 
Frowns perfect-sweet along the brow 
Light-glooming over eyes divine, 
Like little clouds sun-fringed, are thine, 
Ever varying Madeline. 
Thy smile and frown are not aloof 
From one another, 
Each to each is dearest brother ; 
Hues of the silken sheeny woof 
Momently shot into each other. 
All the mystery is thine ; 
Smiling, frowning, evermore, 
Thou art perfect in love-lore, 
Ever varying Madeline. 

3- 
A subtle, sudden flame, 
By veering passion fann'd, 

About thee breaks and dances ; 
When I would kiss thy hand, 
The flush of anger' d shame 

O'erflows thy calmer glances, 
And o'er black brows drops down 
A sudden-curved frown : 



RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ARABIAN NIGHTS. 



But when I turn away, 
Thou, willing me to stay, 

Wooest not, nor vainly wranglest ; 
But,' looking fixedly the while, 

All my bounding heart entanglest 
In a golden-netted smile ; 
Then in madness and in bliss, 
If my lips should dare to kiss 
Thy taper fingers amorously, 
Again thou blushest angerly ; 
And o'er black brows drops down 
A sudden-curved frown. 



SONG. —THE OWL. 

i. 

When cats run home and light is come, 

And dew is cold upon the ground, 

And the far-off stream is dumb, 

And the whirring sail goes round, 

And the whirring sail goes round ; 

Alone and warming his five wits, 

The white owl in the belfry sits. 

2. 

When merry milkmaids click the latch, 
And rarely smells the new-mown 
hay, 
And the cock hath sung beneath the 
thatch 
Twice or thrice his roundelay, 
Twice or thrice his roundelay : 
Alone and warming his five wits, 
The white owl in the belfry sits. 



SECOND SONG. 

TO THE SAME. 



Thy tuwhits are lull'd I wot, 
Thy tuwhoos of yesternight, 
Which upon the dark afloat, 
So took echo with delight, 
So took echo with delight, 
That her voice untuneful grown, 
Wears all day a fainter tone. 



I would mock thy chaunt anew ; 

But I cannot mimic it ; 
Not a whit of thy tuwhoo, 

Thee to woo to thy tuwhit, 



Thee to woo to thy tuwhit, 
With a lengthen 'd loud halloo, 
Tuwhoo, tuwhit, tuwhit, tuwhoo-o-o. 



RECOLLECTIONS OF THE 
ARABIAN NIGHTS. 

When the breeze of a joyful dawn 
blew free 

In the silken sail of infancy^ 
The tide of time flow'd back with me, 

The forward-flowing tide of time ; 
And many a sheeny summer-morn, 
Adown the Tigris I was borne, 
By Bagdat's shrines of fretted gold, 
High-walled gardens green and old ; 
True Mussulman was I and sworn, 

For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Anight my shallop, rustling thro' 
The low and bloomed foliage, drove 
The fragrant, glistening deeps, and 

clove 
The citron- shadows in the blue : 
By garden porches on the brim, 
The costly doors flung open wide, 
Gold glittering thro' lamplight dim, 
And broider'd sofas on each side : 
In sooth it was a goodly time, 
For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Often, where clear-stemm'd platans 

guard 
The outlet, did I turn away 
The boat-head down a broad canal 
From the main river sluiced, where all 
The sloping of the moon-lit sward 
Was damask-work, and deep inlay 
Of braided blooms unmowfi, which 

crept 

Adown to where the water slept. 

A goodly place, a goodly time, 

For it was in the golden prime 

Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

A motion from the river won 
Ridged the smooth level, bearing on 
My shallop thro' the star-strown calm, 
Until another night in night 
I enter' d, from the clearer light, 



RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ARABIAN NIGHTS. 



Imbower'd vaults of pillar'd palm, 
Imprisoning sweets, which, as they 

clomb 
Heavenward, were stay'd beneath the 
dome 
Of hollow boughs. — A goodly time, 
For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Still onward ; and the clear canal 
Is rounded to as clear a lake. 
From the green rivage many a fall 
Of diamond rillets musical, 
Thro' little crystal arches low 
Down from the central fountain's flow 
Fall'n silver-chiming, seem'd to shake 
The sparkling flints beneath the prow. 
A goodly place, a goodly time, 
For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Above thro' many a bowery turn 
A walk with vary-color'd shells 
Wander'd engram'd. On either side 
All round about the fragrant marge 
From fluted vase, and brazen urn 
In order, eastern flowers large, 
Some dropping low their crimson bells 
Half-closed, and others studded wide 
With disksand tiars, fed the time 
With odor in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Far off, and where the lemon-grove 
In closest coverture upsprung, 
The living airs of middle night 
Died round the bulbul as he sung ; 
Not he : but something which pos- 

sess'd 

The darkness of the world, delight, 

Life, anguish, death, immortal love, 

Ceasing not, mingled, unrepress'd, 

Apart from place, withholding time, 

But flattering the golden prime 

Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Black the garden-bowers and grots 
Slumber'd : the solemn palms were 

ranged 
Above, unwoo'd of summer wind : 
A sudden splendor from behind 
Flush'd all the leaves with rich gold- 
green, 
And, flowing rapidly between 



Their interspaces, count erchanged 

The level lake with diamond-plots 

Of dark and bright. A lovely time, 

For it was in the golden prime 

Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Dark-blue the deep sphere overhead, 
Distinct with vivid stars inlaid, 
Grew darker from that under-flame : 
So, leaping lightly from the boat, 
With silver anchor left afloat, 
In marvel whence that glory came 
Upon me, as in sleep I "sank 
In cool soft turf upon the bank, 

Entranced with that place and time, 
So worthy of the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Thence thro' the garden I was drawn — 
A realm of pleasance, many a mound, 
And many a shadow-chequer'd lawn 
Full of the city's stilly sound, 
And deep myrrh- thickets blowing 

round 
The stately cedar, tamarisks, 
Thick rosaries of scented thorn, 
Tall orient shrubs, and obelisks 
Graven with emblems of the time, 
In honor of the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

With dazed vision unawares 
From the long alley's latticed shade 
Emerged, I came upon the great 
Pavilion of the Caliphat. 
Right to the carven cedarn doors, 
Flung inward over spangled floors, 
Broad-based flights of marble stairs 
Ran up with golden balustrade, 
After the fashion of the time, 
And humor of the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

The fourscore windows all alight 
As with the quintessence of flame, 
A million tapers flaring bright 
From twisted silvers look'd to shame 
The hollow-vaulted dark, and stream'd 
Upon the mooned domes aloof 
In inmost Bagdat, till there seem'd 
Hundreds of crescents on the roof 

Of night new-risen, that marvellous 
time, 

To celebrate the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 



ODE TO MEMORY. 



Then stole I up, and trancedly- 
Gazed on the Persian girl alone, 
Serene with argent-lidded eyes 
Amorous, and lashes like to rays 
Of darkness, and a brow of pearl 
Tressed with redolent ebony, 
In many a dark delicious curl, 
Flowing beneath her rose-hued zone ; 
The sweetest lady of the time, 
Well worthy of the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Six columns, three on either side, 
Pure silver, underpropt a rich 
Throne of the massive ore, from which 
Down-droop'd, in many a floating fold, 
Engarlanded and diaper'd 
With inwrought flowers, a cloth of gold. 
Thereon, his deep eye laughter-stirr'd 
With merriment of kingly pride, 
Sole star of all that place and time, 
I saw him — in hrs golden prime, 
The Good Haroun Alraschid ! 



ODE TO MEMORY. 



Thou who stealest fire, 

From the fountains of the past, 

To glorify the present ; oh, haste, 
Visit my low desire ! 

Strengthen me, enlighten me \ 

I faint in this obscurity, 

Thou dewy dawn of memory. 

2. 

Come not as thou earnest of late, 
Flinging the gloom of yesternight 
On the white day ; but robed in soft- 
en'd light 
Of orient state. 
Whilome thou earnest with the morn- 
ingmist, 
Even as a maid, whose stately brow 
The dew-impearled winds of dawn have 
kiss'd, 
When she, as thou, 
Stays on her floating locks the lovely 

freight 
Of overflowing blooms, and earliest 

shoots 
Of orient green, giving safe pledge of 
fruits, 



Which in wintertide shall star 

The black earth with brilliance rare. 



Whilome thou earnest with the morn- 
ing mist, 
And with the evening cloud, 

Showering thy gleaned wealth into my 
open breast, 

(Those peerless flowers which in the 
rudest wind 
Never grow sere, 

When rooted in the garden of the mind, 
Because they are the earliest of the 
year). 
Nor was the night thy shroud. 

In sweet dreams softer than unbroken 
rest 

Thou leddest by the hand thine infant 
Hope. 

The eddying of her garments caught 
from thee 

The light of thy great presence ; and 
the cope 
Of the half-attain'd futurity, 
Though deep not fathomless, 

Was cloven with the million stars which 
tremble 

O'er the deep mind of dauntless infan- 
t- 
Small thought was there of life's dis- 
tress ; 

For sure she deem'd no mist of earth 
could dull 

Those spirit-thrilling eyes so keen and 
beautiful : 

Sure she was nigher to heaven's 
spheres, 

Listening the lordly music flowing from 
The illimitable years. 

strengthen me, enlighten me ! 

1 faint in this obscurity, 
Thou dewy dawn of memory. 



Come forth I charge thee, arise, 
Thou of the many tongues, the myri- 
ad eyes ! 
Thou comest not with shows of flaunt- 
ing vines 
Unto mine inner eye, 
Divinest Memory ! 
Thou wert not nursed by the water- 
fall 



8 



ODE TO MEMORY. — SONG. 



Which ever sounds and shines 

A pillar of white light upon the wall 
Of purple cliffs, aloof descried : 
Come from the woods that belt the 

gray hillside, 
The seven elms, the poplars four 
That stand beside my father's door, 
And chiefly from the brook that loves 
To purl o'er matted cress and ribbed 

sand, 
Or dimple in the dark of rushy coves, 
Drawing into his narrow earthen urn, 

In every elbow and turn, 
The filter'd tribute of the rough wood- 
land. 
O ! hither lead thy feet ! 
Pour round mine ears the livelong bleat 
Of the thick-fleeced sheep from wattled 
folds, 
Upon the ridged wolds, 
When the first matin-song hath wak- 

en'd loud 
Over the dark dewy earth forlorn, 
What time the amber morn 
Forth gushes from beneath a low-hung 
cloud. 

5- 
Large dowries doth the raptured eye 
To the young spirit present 
When first she is wed ; 

And like a bride of old 
In triumph led, 

With music and sweet showers 
Of festal flowers, 
Unto the dwelling she must 
sway. 
Well hast thou done, great artist Mem- 
ory, 
In setting round thy first experiment 
With royal frame-work of wrought 
gold; 
Needs must thou dearly love thy first 

essay, 
And foremost in thy various gallery 
Place it, where sweetest sunlight falls 
Upon the storied walls ; 
For the discovery 
And newness of thine art so pleased 

thee, 
That all which thou hast drawn of 
fairest 
Or boldest since, but lightly weighs 
With thee unto the love thou bearest 



The first-bom of thy genius. Artist- 
like, 

Ever retiring thou dost gaze 

On the prime labor of thine early days : 

No matter what the sketch might be ; 

Whether the high field on the bushless 
Pike, 

Or even a sand-built ridge 

Of heaped hills that mound the sea, 

Overblown with murmurs harsh, 

Or even a lowly cottage whence we se 

Stretch'd wide and wild the waste 
enormous marsh, 

Where from the frequent bridge, 

Like emblems of infinity, 

The trenched waters run from sky to- 
sky ; 

Or a garden bower'd close 

With plaited alleys of the trailing rose, 

Long alleys falling down to twilight 
grots, 

Or opening upon level plots 

Of crowned lilies, standing near • 

Purple-spiked lavender : 

Whither in after life retired 

From brawling storms, 

From weary wind, 

With youthful fancy reinspired, 

We may hold converse with all forms 

Of the many-sided mind, 

And those whom passion hath not 
blinded, 

Subtle-thoughted, myriad-minded. 

My friend, with you to live alone, 

Were how much better than to own 

A crown, a sceptre, and a throne ! 

strengthen me, enlighten me ! 

1 faint in this obscurity, 
Thou dewy dawn of memory. 



SONG. 



A spirit haunts the year's last hours 
Dwelling amid these yellowing bowers : 

To himself he talks ; 
For at eventide, listening earnestly, 
At his work you may hear him sob 
and sigh 
In the walks ; 

Earthward he boweth the heavy 
stalks 



ADELINE.— A CHARACTER. 



Of the mouldering flowers : 

Heavily hangs the broad sunflower 
Over its grave i' the earth so 
'chilly ; 
Heavily hangs the hollyhock, 
Heavily hangs the tiger-lily. 

2. 

The air is damp, and hush'd, and close, 
As a sick man's room when he taketh 
repose 
An hour before death ; 
My very heart faints and my whole 

soul grieves 
At the moist rich smell of the rotting 
leaves, 
And the breath 

Of the fading edges of box be- 
neath, 
And the year's last rose. 

Heavily hangs the broad sunflower 
Over its grave i' the earth so 
chilly ; 
Heavily hangs the hollyhock, 
Heavily hangs the tiger-lily. 



ADELINE. 

i. 

Mystery of mysteries, 

Faintly smiling Adeline, 
Scarce of earth nor all divine, 
Nor unhappy, nor at rest, 
But beyond expression fair 
With thy floating flaxen hair ; 
Thy rose-lips and full blue eyes 

Take the heart from out my breast. 
Wherefore those dim looks of thine, 
Shadowy, dreaming Adeline ? 

2. 

Whence that aery bloom of thine, 

Like a lily which the sun 
Looks thro' in his sad decline, 

And a rose-bush leans upon, 
•Thou that faintly smilest still, 

As a Naiad in a well, 

Looking at the set of day, 
Or a phantom two hours old 

Of a maiden past away, 
Ere the placid lips be cold ? 
Wherefore those faint smiles of thine, 

Spiritual Adeline ? 



What hope or fear or joy is thine ? 
Who talketh with thee, Adeline ? 
For sure thou art not all alone : 

Do beating hearts of salient springs 
Keep measure with thine own ? 

Hast thou heard the butterflies 
What they say betwixt their wings ? 
Or in stillest evenings 
With what voice the violet woos 
To his heart the silver dews ? 
Or when little airs arise, 
How the merry bluebell rings 
To the mosses underneath? 
Hast thou look'd upon the breath 
Of the lilies at sunrise ? 
Wherefore. that faint smile of thine, 
Shadowy, dreaming Adeline ? 

4- 
Some honey-converse feeds thy mind, 
Some spirit of a crimson rose 
In love with thee forgets to close 
His curtains, wasting odorous sighs 
All night long on darkness blind. 
What aileth thee ? whom waitest thou 
With thy soften'd, shadow'd brow, 
And those dew-lit eyes of thine, 
Thou faint smiler, Adeline ? 



Lovest thou the doleful wind 

When thou gazest at the skies ? 
Doth the low-tongued Orient 

Wander from the side of the morn, 
Dripping with Sabsan spice 
On thy pillow, lowly bent 

With melodious airs lovelorn, 
Breathing Light against thy face, 
While his locks a-dropping twined 
Round thy neck in subtle ring 
Make a carcanet of rays, 
• And ye talk together still, 

In the language wherewith Spring 
Letters cowslips on the hill ? 
Hence that look and smile of thine, 
Spiritual Adeline. 



A CHARACTER. 

With a half-glance upon the sky 
At night he said, " The wanderings 



THE POET. 



Of this most intricate Universe 
Teach me the nothingness of things." 
Yet could not all creation pierce 
Beyond the bottom of his eye. 

He spake of beauty : that the dull 
Saw no divinity in grass, 
Life in dead stones, or spirit in air ; 
Then looking as 't were in a glass, 
He smooth'd his chin and sleek'd his 

hair, 
And said the earth was beautiful. 

He spake of virtue : not the gods 
More purely, when they wish to charm 
Pallas and Juno sitting by : 
And with a sweeping of the arm, 
And a lack-lustre dead-blue eye, 
Devolved his rounded periods. 

Most delicately hour by hour 
He canvass' d human mysteries, 
And trod on silk, as if the winds 
Blew his own praises in his eyes, 
And stood aloof from other minds 
In impotence of fancied power. 

With lips depress'd as he were meek, 
Himself unto himself he sold : 
Upon himself himself did feed : 
Quiet, dispassionate, and cold, 
And other than his form of creed, 
With chisell'd features clear and sleek. 



THE POET. 

The poet in a golden clime was born, 

With golden stars above ; 
Dower'd with the hate of hate, the 
scorn of scorn, 
The love of love. 

He saw thro' life and death, thro' good 
and ill, 
He saw thro' his own soul. 
The marvel of the everlasting will, 
An open scroll, 

Before him lay : with echoing feet he 
threaded 
The secretest walks of fame : 
The viewless arrows of his thoughts 
were headed 
And wing'd with flame, 



Like Indian reeds blown from his silver 
tongue, 
And of so fierce a flight, 
From Calpe unto Caucasus they sung, 
Filling with light 

And vagrant melodies the winds which 
bore 
Them earthward till they lit ; 
Then, like the arrow-seeds of the field 
flower, 
The fruitful wit 

Cleaving, took root, and springing forth 
anew 
Where'er they fell, behold, 
Like to the mother plant in semblance, 
grew 
A flower all gold, 

And bravely furnish'd all abroad to 
fling 
The winged shafts of truth, 
To throng with stately blooms the 
breathing spring 
Of Hope and Youth. 

So many minds did gird their orbs 
with beams, 
Tho' one did fling the fire. 
Heaven flow'd upon the soul in many 
dreams 
Of high desire. 

Thus truth was multiplied on truth, 
the world 
Like one great garden show'd, 
And thro' the wreaths of floating dark 
upcurl'd, 
Rare sunrise flow'd. 

And Freedom rear'd in that august 
sunrise 
Her beautiful, bold brow, 
When rites and forms before his burn- 
ing eyes 
Melted like snow. 

There was no blood upon her maiden 
robes 
Sunn'd by those orient skies ; 
But round about the circles of the 
globes 
Of her keen eyes 



THE POETS MIND. — THE SEA-FAIRIES. 



And in her raiment's hem was traced 
in flame 
Wisdom, a name to shake 
All evil -dreams of power, — a sacred 
name. 
And when she spake, 

Her words did gather thunder as they 
ran, 
And as the lightning to the thunder 
Which follows it, riving the spirit of 
man, 
Making earth wonder, 

So was their meaning to her words. 
No sword 
Of wrath her right arm whirl'd, 
But one poor poet's scroll, and with 
his word 
She shook tfce world. 



THE POET'S MIND. 



Vex not thou the poet's mind 

With thy shallow wit : 
Vex not thou the poet's mind ; 

For thou canst not fathom it. 
Clear and bright it should be ever, 
Flowing like a crystal river ; 
Bright as light, and clear as wind. 



Dark-brow'd sophist, comenotanear; 

All the place is holy ground ; 
Hollow smile and frozen sneer 

Come not here. 
Holy water will I pour 
Into every spicy flower 
Of the laurel-shrubs that hedge it 

around. 
The flowers would faint at your cruel 
cheer. 
In your eye there is death, 
There is frost in your breath 
Which would blight the plants. 
Where you stand you cannot hear 
From the groves within 
The wild-bird's din. 
In the heart of the garden the merry 
bird chants, 



It would fall to the ground if you came 
in. 
In the middle leaps a fountain 
Like sheet lightning, 
Ever brightening 
With a low melodious thunder ; 
All day and all night it is ever drawn 
From the brain of the purple moun- 
tain 
Which stands in the distance yon- 
der : 
It springs on a level of bowery lawn, 
And the mountain draws it from Heav- 
en above, 
And it sings a song of undying love ; 
And yet, tho' its voice be so clear 

and full, 
You never would hear it ; your ears 

are so dull ; 
So keep where you are : you are foul 

with sin ; 
It would shrink to the earth if you 
came in. 



THE SEA-FAIRIES. 

Slow sail'd the weary mariners and 
saw, 

Betwixt the green brink and the 
running foam, 

Sweet faces, rounded arms, and bos- 
oms prest 

To little harps of gold ; and while 
they mused, 

Whispering to each other half in 
fear, 

Shrill music reach'd them on the 
middle sea. 

Whither away, whither away, whither 
away ? fly no more. 

Whither away from the high green field, 
and the happy blossoming shore ? 

Day and night to the billow the foun- 
tain calls ; 

Down shower the gambolling water- 
falls 

From wandering over the lea : 

Out of the live-green heart of the dells 

They freshen the silvery - crimson 
shells, 

And thick with white bells the clover- 
hill swells 



THE DESERTED HOUSE. — THE DYING SWAN. 



High over the full-toned sea : 

O hither, come hither and furl your 

sails, 
Come hither to me and to me : 
Hither, come hither and frolic and 

play ; 
Here it is only the mew that wails ; 
We will sing to you all the day : 
Mariner, mariner, furl your sails, 
For here are the blissful downs and 

dales, 
And merrily merrily carol the gales, 
And the spangle dances in bight and 

bay, 
And the rainbow forms and flies on the 

land 
Over the islands free ; 
And the rainbow lives in the curve of 

the sand ; 
Hither, come hither and see ; 
And the rainbow hangs on the poising 

wave, 
And sweet is the color of cove and 

cave, 
And sweet shall your welcome be : 
O hither, come hither, and be our lords, 
For merry brides are we : 
We will kiss sweet kisses, and speak 

sweet words : 
O listen, listen, your eyes sjiall glisten 
With pleasure and love and jubilee : 
O listen, listen, your eyes shall glisten 
When the sharp clear twang of the 

golden chords 
Runs up the ridged sea. 
Who can light on as happy a shore 
All the world o'er, all the world o'er? 
Whither away ? listen and stay : mari- 
ner, mariner, fly no more. 



THE DESERTED HOUSE, 
i. 

Life and Thought have gone away 
Side by side, 
Leaving door and windows wide : 
Careless tenants they 1 

2. 

All within is dark as night : 
In the windows is no light ; 
And no murmur at the door, 
So frequent on its hinge before. 



Close the door, the shutters close, 

Or thro' the windows we shall see 
The nakedness and vacancy 

Of the dark deserted houfee. 



Come away : no more of mirth 

Is here or merry-making sound. 

The house was builded of the earth, 
And shall fall again to ground. 

5- 
Come away : for Life and Thought 
Here no longer dwell ; 
But in a city glorious — 
A great and distant city — have bought 
A mansion incorruptible. 
Would they could have stayed 
with us ! • 



THE DYING SWAN. 



The plain was grassy, wild and bare, 
Wide, wild, and open to the air, 

Which had built up everywhere 
An under-roof of doleful gray. 

With an inner voice the river ran, 

Adown it floated a dying swan, 
And loudly did lament. 
It was the middle of the day. 

Ever the weary wind went on, 

And took the reed-tops as it went. 



Some blue peaks in the distance 

rose, 
And white against the cold-white 

sky, 
Shone out their crowning snows. 

One willow over the river wept, 
And shook the wave as the wind did 

sigh ; 
Above in the wind was the swallow, 
Chasing itself at its own wild will, 
And far thro' the marish green and 

still 
The tangled water-courses slept, 
Shot over with purple, and green, and 

yellow. 



A DIRGE.— LOVE AND DEATH. 



The wild swan's death-hymn took the 

soul 
Of that waste place with joy 
Hidden in sorrow : at first to the ear 
The warble was low, and full and clear ; 
And floating about the under-sky, 
Prevailing in weakness, the coronach 

stole 
Sometimes afar, and sometimes anear ; 
But anon her awful jubilant voice, 
With a music strange and manifold, 
Flow'd forth on a carol free and bold ; 
As when a mighty people rejoice 
With shawms, and with cymbals, and 

harps of gold, 
And the tumult of their acclaim is roll'd 
Thro' the open gates of the city afar, 
To the shepherd who watcheth the 

evening star. 
And the creeping mosses and clamber- 
ing weeds, 
And the willow-branches hoar and 

dank, 
And the wavy swell of the soughing 

reeds, 
And the wave-worn horns of the echo- 
ing bank, 
And the silvery marish-flowers that 

throng 
The desolate creeks and pools among, 
Were flooded over with eddying song. 



A DIRGE. 

Now is done thy long day's work ; 
Fold thy palms across thy breast, 
Fold thine arms, turn to thy rest. 

Let them rave. 
Shadows of the silver birk 
Sweep the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 



Thee nor carketh care nor slander ; 
Nothing but the small cold worm 
Fretteth thine enshrouded form. 

Let them rave. 
Light and shadow ever wander 
O'er the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 



3- 
Thou wilt not turn upon thy bed ; 
Chanteth not the brooding bee 
Sweeter tones than calumny ? 

Let them rave. 
Thou wilt never raise thine head 
From the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 



Crocodiles wept tears for thee ; 

The woodbine and eglatere 

Drip sweeter dews than traitor's tear. 

Let them rave. 
Rain makes music in the tree 
O'er the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 

5- 

Round thee blow, self-pleached deep, 
Bramble-roses, faint and pale, 
And long purples of the dale. 

Let them rave. 
These in every shower creep 
Thro' the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 

6. 
The gold-eyed kingcups fine ; 
The frail bluebell peereth over 
Rare broidry of the purple clover. 

Let them rave. 
Kings have no such couch as thine, 
As the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 



Wild words wander here and there ; 
God's great gift of speech abused 
Makes thy memory confused : 

But let them rave. 
The balm-cricket carols clear 
In the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 



LOVE AND DEATH. 

What time the mighty moon was 
gathering light 

Love paced the thymy plots of Para- 
dise, 

And all about him roll'd his lustrous 
eyes; 



14 



THE BALLAD OF OR I ANA. 



When, turning round a cassia, full in 

view 
Death, walking all alone beneath a 

yew, 
And talking to himself, first met his 

sight : 
" You must begone," said Death, 

"these walks are mine." 
Love wept and spread his sheeny vans 

for flight ; 
Yet ere he parted said, " This hour is 

thine : 
Thou art the shadow of life, and as 

the tree 
Stands in the sun and shadows all be- 
neath, 
So in the light of great eternity 
Life eminent creates the shade of 

death ; 
The shadow passeth when the tree 

shall fall, 
But I shall reign forever over all." 



THE BALLAD OF ORIANA. 

My heart is wasted with my woe, 

Oriana. 
There is no rest for me below, 

Oriana. 
When the long dun wolds are ribb'd 

with snow. 
And loud the Norland whirlwinds 
blow, 

Oriana, 
Alone I wander to and fro, 

Oriana. 

Ere the light on dark was growing, 

Oriana, 
At midnight the cock was crowing, 

Oriana : 
Winds were blowing, waters flowing, 
We heard the steeds to battle going, 

Oriana ; 
Aloud the hollow bugle blowing, 

Oriana. 

In the yew-wood black as night, 

Oriana, 
Ere I rode into the fight, 

Oriana, 
While blissful tears blinded my sight 



By star-shine and by moonlight, 

Oriana, 
I to thee my troth did plight, 

Oriana. 

She stood upon the castle wall, 

Oriana : 
She watch'd my crest among them all, 

Oriana : 
She saw me fight, she heard me call, 
When forth there stept a foeman tall, 

Oriana, 
Atween me and the castle wall, 

Oriana. 

The bitter arrow went aside, 

Oriana : 
The false, false arrow went aside, 

Oriana : 
The damned arrow glanced aside, 
And pierced thy heart, my love, my 
bride, 

Oriana ! 
Thy hearU, my life, my love, my bride, 

Oriana ! 

Oh ! narrow, narrow was the space, 

Oriana. 
Loud, loud rung out the bugle's brays, 

Oriana. 
Oh ! deathful stabs were dealt apace, 
The battle deepen'd in its place, 

Oriana ; 
But I was down upon my face, 

Oriana. 

They should have stabb'd me where I 
lay, 

Oriana ! 
How could I rise and come away, 

Oriana ? 
How could I look upon the day? 
They should have stabb'd me where I 
lay, 

Oriana — 
They should have trod me into clay, 

Oriana. 

O breaking heart that will not break, 

Oriana ! 
O pale, pale face so sweet and meek, 

Oriana ! 
Thou smilest, but thou dost not speak, 
And then the tears run down my cheek, 

Oriana : 



CIRCUMSTANCE. — THE MERMAN. 15 

THE MERMAN. 



What wantest thou ? whom dost thou 

seek, 

Oriana ? 

I cry aloud : none hear my cries, 

Oriana. 
Thou com est atween me and the skies, 

Oriana. 
I feel the tears of blood arise 
Up from my heart unto my eyes, 

Oriana. 
Within thy heart my arrow lies, 

Oriana. 

O cursed hand ! O cursed blow ! 
Oriana ! 

happy thou that liest low, 

Oriana ! 
All night the silence seems to flow 
Beside me in my utter woe, 

Oriana. 
A weary, weary way I go, 

Oriana. 

When Norland winds pipe down the 
sea, 
Oriana, 

1 walk, I dare not think of thee, 

Oriana. 
Thou liest beneath the greenwood tree, 
I dare not die and come to thee, 

Oriana. 
I hear the roaring of the sea, 

Oriana. 



CIRCUMSTANCE. 

Two children in two neighbor villages 
Playing mad pranks along the healthy 

leas; 
Two strangers meeting at a festival ; 
Two lovers whispering by an orchard 

wall ; 
Two lives bound fast in one with golden 

ease ; 
Two graves grass-green beside a gray 

church-tower, 
Wash'd with still rains and daisy- 
blossomed ; 
Two children in one hamlet born and 

bred ; 
So runs the round of life from hour to 

hour. 



Who would be 
A merman bold, 
Sitting alone, 
Singing alone 
Under the sea, 
With a crown of gold, 
On a throne ? 

2. 

I would be a merman bold ; 
I would sit and sing the whole of the 

day; 
I would fill the sea-halls with a voice 

of power ; 
But at night I would roam abroad 

and play 
With the mermaids in and out of the 

rocks, 
Dressing their hair with the white 

sea-flower ; 
And holding them back by their flow- 
ing locks 
I would kiss them often under the sea, 
And kiss them again till they kiss'd me 

Laughingly, laughingly ; 
And then we would wander away, 

away 
To the pale-green sea-groves straight 

and high, 
Chasing each other merrily. 

3- 
There would be neither moon nor 

star; 
But the wave would make music above 

us afar — 
Low thunder and light in the magic 
t night — 
Neither moon nor star. 
We would call aloud in the dreamy 

dells, 
Call to each other and whoop and cry 
All night, merrily, merrily ; 
They would pelt me with starry span- 
gles and shells, 
Laughing and clapping their hands 
between, 
All night, merrily, merrily : 
But I would throw to them back in 

mine 
Turkis and agate and almondine : 
Then leaping out upon them unseen 



i6 



THE MERMAID. — SONNET. 



I would kiss them often under the sea, 
And kiss them again till they kiss'd 
me 
Laughingly, laughingly. 
Oh ! what a happy life were mine 
Under the hollow-hung ocean green ! 
Soft are the moss-beds under the sea ; 
We would live merrily, merrily. 



THE MERMAID. 



Who would be 
A mermaid fair, 
Singing alone, 
Combing her hair 
Under the sea, 
In a golden curl 
With a comb of pearl, 
On a throne ? 



I would be a mermaid fair ; 
I would sing to myself the whole of 

the day ; 
With a comb of pearl I would comb 

my hair ; 
And still as I comb'd I would sing 

and say, 
" Who is it loves me ? who loves not 

me?" 
I would comb my hair till my ring- 
lets would fall, 
Low adown, low adown, 
From under my starry sea-bud crown 

Low adown and around, 
And I should look like a fountain 
of gold 
Springing alone 
With a shrill inner sound, 

Over the throne 
In the midst of the hall ; 
Till that great sea-snake under the sea 
From his coiled sleeps in the central 

deeps 
Would slowly trail himself sevenfold 
Round the hall where I sate, and look 

in at the gate 
With his large calm eyes for the love 

of me. 
And all the mermen under the sea 
Would feel their immortality 
Die in their hearts for the love of me. 



But at night I would wander away, 
away, 
I would fling on each side my low- 
flowing locks, 

And lightly vault from the throne and 
play 
With the mermen in and out of the 
rocks ; 

We would run to and fro, and hide and 
seek, 
On the broad sea-wolds in the crim- 
son shells, 
Whose silvery spikes are nigh est the 
sea. 

But if any came near I would call, and 
shriek, 

And adown the steep like a wave I 
would leap 

. From the diamond-ledges that jut 
from the dells ; 

For I would not be kiss'd by all who 
would list, 

Of the bold^erry mermen under the 
sea ; 

They would sue me, and woo me, and 
flatter me, 

In the purple twilights under the sea ; 

But the king of them all would carry 
me, 

Woo me, and win me, and marry me, 

In the branching jaspers under the 
sea; 

Then all the dry pied things that be 

In the hueless mosses under the sea 

Would curl round my silver feet si- 
lently, 

All looking up for the love of me. 

And if I should carol aloud, from aloft 

All things that are forked, and horned, 
and soft 

Would lean out from the hollow sphere 
of the sea, 

All looking down for the love of me. 



SONNET TO J. M. K. 

My hope and heart is with thee — 

thou wilt be 
A latter Luther, and a soldier-priest 
To scare church-harpies from the mas- 
ter's feast ; 



THE LADY OF SHALOTT. 



17 



Our dusted velvets have much need of 

thee ; 
Thou art no sabbath-drawler of old 

saw's, 
Distill'd from some worm-canker'd 

homily ; 
But spurr'd at heart with fieriest energy 
To embattail and to wall about thy 

cause 
With iron-worded proof, hating to hark 



The humming of the drowsy pulpit- 
drone 

Half God's good sabbath, while the 
worn-out clerk 

Brow-beats his desk below. Thou 
from a throne 

Mounted in heaven wilt shoot into the 
dark 

Arrows of lightnings. I will stand and 
mark. 



POEMS. 



(published 1832.) 

[This division of this volume was published in the winter of 1832. Some of the 
poems have been considerably altered. Others have been added, which, with one 
exception, were written in 1833.] 



THE LADY OF SHALOTT. 



On either side the river lie 
Long fields of barley and of rye, 
That clothe the wold and meet the sky ; 
And thro' the field the road runs by 

To many-tower' d Camelot ; 
And up and down the people go, 
Gazing where the lilies blow 
Round an island there below, 

The island of Shalott. 

Willows whiten, aspens quiver, 
Little breezes dusk and shiver 
Thro' the wave that runs forever 
By the island in the river 

Flowing down to Camelot. 
Four gray walls, and four gray towers, 
Overlook a space of flowers, 
And the silent isle imbowers 

The Lady of Shalott. 

By the margin, willow-veil'd, 
Slid^|he heavy barges trail 'd 
By slow horses ; and unhail'd 
The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd 

Skimming down to Camelot : 
But who hath seen her wave her hand ? 
Or at the casement seen her stand ? 



Or is she known in all the land, 
The Lady of Shalott? 

Only reapers, reaping early 
In among the bearded barley, 
Hear a song that echoes cheerly 
From the river winding clearly, 

Down to tower'd Camelot : 
And by the moon the reaper weary, 
Piling sheaves in uplands airy, 
Listening, whispers, " 'T is the fairy 

Lady of Shalott." 



There she weaves by night and day 
A magic web with colors gay. 
She has heard a whisper say, 
A curse is on her if she stay 

To look down to Camelot. 
She knows not what the curse may be, 
And so she weaveth steadily, 
And little other care hath she, 

The ]*ady of Shalott. 

And moving thro' a mirror clear 
That hangs before her all the year, 
Shadows of the world appear. 
There she sees the highway near 

Winding down to Camelot : 



i8 



THE LADY OF SHALOTT. 



There the river eddy whirls, 
And there the surly village-churls, 
And the red cloaks of market girls, 
Pass onward from Shalott. 

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad, 
An abbot on an ambling pad, 
Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad, 
Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad, 

Goes by to tower' d Camelot; 
And sometimes thro' the mirror blue 
The knights come riding two and 

two : 
She hath no loyal knight and true, 

The Lady of Shalott. 

But in her web she still delights 
To weave the mirror's magic sights, 
For often thro' the silent nights 
A funeral, with plumes and lights, 

And music, went to Camelot : 
Or when the moon was overhead, 
Came two young lovers lately wed ; 
" I am half-sick of shadows," said 

The Lady of Shalott. 



A bow-shot from her bower-eaves, 
He rode between the barley sheaves, 
The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves, 
And flamed upon the brazen greaves 

Of bold Sir Lancelot. 
A redcross knight forever kneel'd 
To a lady in his shield, 
That sparkled on the yellow field, 

Beside remote Shalott. 

The gemmy bridle glitter' d free, 
Like to some branch of stars we see 
Hung in the golden Galaxy. 
The bridle bells rang merrily 

As he rode down to Camelot : 
And from his blazon 'd baldric slung 
A mighty silver bugle hung, 
And as he rode his armor rung, 

Beside remote Shalott. 

All in the blue unclouded weather 
Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leath- 
er, 
The helmet and the helmet-feather 
Burn'd like one burning flame together, 
As he rode down to Camelot. 



As often thro' the purple night, 
Below the starry clusters bright, 
Some bearded meteor, trailing light, 
Moves over still Shalott. 

His broad clear brow in sunlight 

glow'd ; 
On burnish'd hooves his war-horse 

trode ; 
From underneath his helmet flow'd 
His coal-black curls as on he rode, 

As he rode down to Camelot. 
From the bank and from the river 
He flash'd into the crystal mirror, 
"Tirra lirra," by the river 

Sang Sir Lancelot. 

She left the web, she left the loom, 
She made three paces thro' the room, 
She saw the water-lily bloom, 
She saw the helmet and the plume, 

She look'd down to Camelot. 
Out flew the web and floated wide ; 
The mirror crack'd from side to side ; 
"The curse is come upon me," cried 

The Lady of Shalott. 



In the stormy east-wind straining, 
The pale yellow woods were waning, 
The broad stream in his banks com- 
plaining, 
Heavily the low sky raining 

Over tower'd Camelot ; 
Down she came and found a boat 
Beneath a willow left afloat, 
And round about the prow she wrote 

The Lady of Shalott. 

And down the river's dim expanse — 
Like some bold seer in a trance, 
Seeing all his own mischance — 
With a glassy countenance 

Did she look to Camelot. 
And at the closing of the day 
She loosed the chain, and down she 

lay ; 
The broad stream bore her far away, 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Lying, robed in snowy white 
That loosely flew to left and right — 
The leaves upon her falling light — 
Thro' the noises of the night 

She floated down 10 Camelot : 



MARIANA IN THE SOUTH. 



19 



And as the boat-head wound along 
The willowy hills and fields among, 
They heard her singing her last song, 
The Lady of Shalott. 

Heard a carol, mournful, holy, 
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly, 
Till her blood was frozen slowly, 
And her eyes were darken'd wholly, 

Turn'd to tower'd Camelot ; 
For ere she reach'd upon the tide 
The first house by the water-side, 
Singing in her song she died, 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Under tower and balcony, 
By garden-wall and gallery, 
A gleaming shape she floated by, 
A corse between the houses high, 

Silent into Camelot. 
Out upon the wharfs they came, 
Knight and burgher, lord and dame, 
And round the prow they read her 
name, 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Who is this ? and what is here ? 
And in the lighted palace near 
Died the sound of royal cheer ; 
And they cross'd themselves for fear, 

All the knights at Camelot : 
But Lancelot mused a little space ; 
He said, " She has a lovely face ; 
God in his mercy lend her grace, 

The Lady of Shalott." 



MARIANA IN THE SOUTH. 

With one black shadow at its feet, 

The house thro' all the level shines, 
Close-latticed to the brooding heat, 

And silent in its dusty vines : 
A faint-blue ridge upon the right, 
An empty river-bed before, 
And shallows on a distant shore, 
In glaring sand and inlets bright. 

But " Ave Mary," made she moan, 
And "Ave Mary," night and 
morn, 
And "Ah," she sang, "to be all 
alone, 
To live forgotten, and love for- 
lorn." 



She, as her carol sadder grew, 

From brow and bosom slowly down 
Thro' rosy taper fingers drew 

Her streaming curls of deepest brown 
To left and right, and made appear, 
Still-lighted in a secret shrine, 
Her melancholy eyes divine, 
The home of woe without a tear. 

And " Ave Mary," washer moan, 
" Madonna, sad is night and 
morn " ; 
And " Ah," she sang, " to be all 
alone, 
To live forgotten, and love for- 
lorn." 

Till all the crimson changed, and past 

Into deep orange o'er the sea, 
Low on her knees herself she cast, 
Before Our Lady murmur' d she ; 
Complaining, " Mother, give me grace 
To help me of my weary load." 
And on the liquid mirror glow'd 
The clear perfection of her face. 

" Is this the form," she made her 
moan, 
" That won his praises night and 
morn? " 
And " Ah," she said, "but I wake 
alone, 
I sleep forgotten, I wake for- 
lorn." 

Nor bird would sing, nor lamb would 
bleat, 
Nor any cloud would cross the vault, 
But day increased from heat to heat, 

On stony drought and steaming salt ; 
Till now at noon she slept again, 
And seem'd knee-deep in mountain 

grass, 
And heard her native breezes pass, 
And runlets babbling down the glen. 
She breathed in sleep a lower moan, 
And murmuring, as at night and 
morn, 
She thought, " My spirit is here 
alone, 
Walks forgotten, and is forlorn." 

Dreaming, she knew it was a dream : 
She felt he was and was not there. 

She woke : the babble of the stream 
Fell, and without the steady glare 



E LEA NO RE. 



Shrank one sick willow sere and small. 
The river-bed was dusty-white ; 
And all the furnace of the light 
Struck up against the blinding wall. 
She whisper' d, with a stifled rnoan 
More inward than at night or 
morn, 
" Sweet Mother, let me not here 
alone 
Live forgotten and die forlorn.', 

And, rising, from her bosom drew 

Old letters, breathing of her worth, 
For "Love," they said, "must needs 
be true, 
To what is loveliest upon earth." 
An image seem'd to pass the door, 
To look at her with slight, and say, 
" But now thy beauty flows away, 
So be alone forevermore." 

" O cruel heart," she changed her 
tone, 
"And cruel love, whose end is 
scorn, 
Is this the end to be left alone, 
To live forgotten, and die for- 
lorn ! " 

But sometimes in the falling day 

An image seem'd to pass the door, 
To look into her eyes and say, 

" But thou shalt be alone no more." 
And flaming downward over all 

From heat to heat the day decreased, 
And slowly rounded to the east 
The one black shadow from the wall. 
" The day to night," she made her 
moan, 
" The day to night, the night to 
morn, 
And. day and night I am left alone 
To live forgotten, and love for- 
lorn." 

At eve a dry cicala sung, 

There came a sound as of the sea ; 
Backward the lattice-blind she flung, 

And lean'd upon the balcony. 
There all in spaces rosy-bright 

Large Hesper glitter'd on her tears, 
And deepening through the silent 
spheres, 
Heaven over Heaven rose the night. 
And weeping then she made her 
moan, 



" The night comes on that knows 
not morn, 
When I shall cease to be all alone, 
To live forgotten, and love for- 
lorn." 



ELEANORE. 



Thy dark eyes open'd not, 
Nor first reveal'd themselves to Eng- 
lish air, 
For there is nothing here, 
Which, from the outward to the in- 
ward brought, 
Moulded thy baby thought. 
Far off from human neighborhood, 
Thou wert born, on a summer 
morn, 
A mile beneath the cedar-wood. 
Thy bounteous forehead was not fann'd 
With breezes from our oaken 
glades, 
But thou wert nursed in some delicious 
land 
Of lavish lights, and . floating 
shades : 
And flattering thy childish thought 
The oriental fairy brought, 
At the moment of thy birth, 
From old well-heads of haunted rills, 
And the hearts of purple hills, 

And shadow'd coves on a sunny 
shore, 
The choicest wealth of all the 
earth, 
Jewel or shell, or starry ore, 
To deck thy cradle, Eleanore. 



Or the yellow-banded bees, 
Thro' half-open lattices 
Coming in the scented breeze, 
Fed thee, a child, lying alone, 
With whitest honey in fairy gar- 
dens cull'd — 
A glorious child, dreaming alone, 
In silk-soft folds, upon yielding 
down, 
With the hum of swarming bees 

Into dreamful slumber lull'd. 



ELEANORE. 



Who may minister to thee ? < 
Summer herself sheuld minister 

To 'thee, with fruitage golden- 
rinded 
On golden salvers, or it may be, 
Youngest Autumn, in a bower 
Grape-thicken'd from the light, and 
blinded 
With many a deep-hued bell-like 
flower 
Of fragrant trailers, when the air 
Sleepeth over all the heaven, 
And the crag that fronts the Even, 
All along the shadowing shore, 
Crimsons over an inland mere, 
Eleanore ! 



How may full-sail'd verse express, 
How may measured words adore 
The full-flowing harmony 
Of thy swan-like stateliness, 
Eleanore ? 
The luxuriant symmetry 
Of thy floating gracefulness, 
Eleanore ? 
Every turn and glance of thine, 
Every lineament divine, 

Eleanore, 
And the steady sunset glow, 
That stays upon thee ? For in 
thee 
Is nothing sudden, nothing 
single ; 
Like two streams of incense free 
From one censer, in one 

shrine, 
Thought and motion mingle, 
Mingle ever. Motions flow 
To one another, even as tho' 
They were modulated so 
To an unheard melody, 
Which lives about thee, and a sweep 

Of richest pauses, evermore 
Drawn from each other mellow-deep ; 
Who may express thee, Eleanore ? 



I stand before thee, Eleanore ; 

I see thy beauty gradually unfold, 
Daily and hourly, more and more. 
1 muse, as in a trance, the while 

Slowly, as from a cloud of gold, 



Comes out thy deep ambrosial smile. 
I muse, as in a trance, whene'er 

The languors of thy love-deep eyes 
Float on to me. I would I were 

So tranced, so rapt in ecstasies, 
To stand apart, and to adore, 
Gazing on thee forevermore, 
Serene, imperial Eleanore ! 



Sometimes, with most intensity 

Gazing, I seem to see 

Thought folded over thought, smiling 
asleep, 

Slowly awaken'd, grow so full and 
deep 

In thy large eyes, that, overpower' d 
quite, 

I cannot veil, or droop my sight, 

But am as nothing in its light : 

As tho' a star, in inmost heaven set, 

Ev'n while we gaze on it, 

Should slowly round his orb, and slow- 
ly grow 

To a full face, there like a sun remain 

Fix'd — then as slowly fade again, 

And draw itself to what it was be- 
fore ; 
So full, so deep, so slow, 
Thought seems to come and go 
In thy large eyes, imperial Elea- 
nore. 



As thunder-clouds that, hung on high, 
Roof d the world with doubt and 
fear, 
Floating thro' an evening atmosphere, 
Grow golden all about the sky ; 
In thee all passion becomes passion- 
less, 
Touch'd by thy spirit's mellowness, 
Losing his fire and active might 

In a silent meditation, 
Falling into a still delight, 

And luxury of contemplation : 
As waves that up a quiet cove 
Rolling slide, and lying still 

Shadow forth the banks at will : 
Or sometimes they swell and move, 
Pressing up against the land, 
With motions of the outer sea : 
And the self-same influence 
Controlleth all the soul and sense 



THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. 



. Of Passion gazing upon thee. 
His bow-string slacken'd, languid 
Love, 
Leaning his cheek upon his hand, 
Droops both his wings, regarding 
thee, 
And so would languish ever- 
more, 
Serene, imperial Eleanore. 



But when I see thee roam, with tresses 

unconfined, 

While the amorous, odorous wind 

Breathes low between the sunset 

and the moon ; 

Or, in a shadowy saloon, 

On silken cushions half reclined ; 

I watch thy grace ; and in its 
place 
My heart a charmed slumber 
keeps, 
While I muse upon thy face ; 
And a languid fire creeps 

Thro' my veins to all my frame, 
Dissolvingly and slowly : soon 

From thy rose-red lips my name 
Floweth ; and then, as in a swoon, 
With dinning sound my ears are rife, 
My tremulous tongue faltereth, 
I lose my color, I lose my breath, 
I drink the cup of a costly death, 
Brimm'd with delirious draughts of 
warmest life. 
I die with my delight, before 
I hear what I would hear from 

thee ; 
Yet tell my name again to me, 
I would be dying evermore, 
So dying ever, Eleanore. 



THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. 

I see the wealthy miller yet, 

His double chin, his portly size, 
And who that knew him could forget 

The busy wrinkles round his eyes ? 
The slow wise smile that, round about 

His dusty forehead dryly curl'd, 
Seem'd half-within and half-without, 

And full of dealings with the world ? 



In yonder chair I see him sit, 

Three fingers round the old silver 
cup — 
I see his gray eyes twinkle yet 

At his own jest — gray eyes lit up 
With summer lightnings of a soul 

So full of summer warmth, so glad, 
So healthy, sound, and clear and whole, 

His memory scarce can make me sad. 

Yet fill my glass : give me one kiss : 

My own sweet Alice, we must die. 
There 's somewhat in this world amiss 

Shall be unriddled by and by. 
There 's somewhat flows to us in life, 

But more is taken quite away. 
Pray, Alice, pray, my darling wife, 

That we may die the self- same day. 

Have I not found a happy earth ? 

I least should breathe a thought of 
pain. 
Would God renew me from my birth 

I 'd almost live my life again. 
So sweet it seems with thee to walk, 

And once again to woo thee mine — 
It seems in after-dinner talk 

Across the walnuts and the wine — 

To be the long and listless boy 

Late-left an orphan of the squire, 
Where this old mansion mounted high 

Looks down upon the village spire : 
For even here, where I and you 

Have lived and loved alone so long, 
Each morn my sleep was broken thro» 

By some wild skylark's matin song. 

And oft I heard the tender dove 

In firry woodlands making moan ; 
But ere I saw your eyes, my love, 

I had no motion of my own. 
For scarce my life with fancy play'd 

Before I dream'd that pleasant 
dream — 
Still hither thither idly sway'd 

Like those long mosses in the stream. 

Or from the bridge I lean'd to hear 
The milldam rushing down with 
noise, 

And see the minnows everywhere 
In crystal eddies glance and poise, 

The tall flag-flowers when they sprung 
Below the range of stepping-stones, 



THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. 



23 



Or those three chestnuts near, that 
hung 
In masses thick with milky cones. 

But, Alice, what an hour was that, 

When after roving in the woods 
('T was April then), I came and sat 

Below the chestnuts, when their buds 
Were glistening to the breezy blue ; 

And on the slope, an absent fool, 
I cast me down, nor thought of you, 

But angled in the higher pool. 

A love-song I had somewhere read, 

An echo from a measured strain, 
Beat time to nothing in my head 

From some odd corner of the brain. 
It haunted me, the morning long, 

With weary sameness in the rhymes, 
The phantom of a silent song, 

That went and came a thousand 
times. 

Then leapt a trout. In lazy mood 

I watch'd the little circles die ; 
They past into the level flood, 

And there a vision caught my eye ; 
'The reflex of a beauteous form, 

A glowing arm, a gleaming neck, 
As when a sunbeam wavers warm 

Within the dark and dimpled beck. 

For you remember, you had set, 

That morning, on the casement's 
edge 
A long green box of mignonette, 

And you were leaning from the ledge : 
And when I raised my eyes, above 

They met with two so full and 
bright — 
Such eyes ! I swear to you, my love, 

That these have never lost their light. 

I loved, and love dispell'd the fear 

That I should die an early death : 
For love possess'd the atmosphere, 

And fill'd the breast with purer 
breath. 
My mother thought, What ails the 
boy ? 

For I was altev'd, and began 
To move about the house with joy, 

And with the certain step of man. 

I loved the brimming wave that swam 
Thro' quiet meadows round the mill, 



The sleepy pool above the dam, 
The pool beneath it never still, 

The meal- sacks on the whiten' d floor, 
The dark round of the dripping 
wheel, 

The very air about the door 

Made misty with the floating meal. 

And oft in ramblings on the wold, 

When April nights began to blow, 
And April's crescent giimmer'd cold, 

I saw the village lights beiow ; 
I knew your taper far away, 

And full at heart of trembling hope, 
From off the wold I came, and lay 

Upon the freshly-flower'd slope. 

The deep brook groan' d beneath the 
mill; 
And " by that lamp," I thought, 
_ " she sits ! " 
The white chalk- quarry from the hill 
Gleam' d to the flying moon by fits. 
" O that I were beside her now ! 

will she answer if I call ? 

O would she give me vow for vow, 
Sweet Alice, if I told her all ? " 

Sometimes I saw you sit and spin ; 

And, in the pauses of the wind. 
Sometimes I heard you sing within ; 

Sometimes your shadow cross'd the 
blind. 
At last you rose and moved the light, 

And the long shadow of the chair 
Flitted across into the night, 

And all the casement darken' d there. 

But when at last I dared to speak, 

The lanes, you know, were white 
with May, 
Your ripe lips moved not, but your 
cheek 

Flush'd like the coming of the day ; 
And so it was — half-sly, half-shy, 

You would, and would not, little one ! 
Although I pleaded tenderly, 

And you and I were all alone. 

And slowly was my mother brought 

To yield consent to my desire : 
She wish'd me happy, but she thought 

1 might have look'd a little higher ; 
And I was young — too young to wed : 

" Yet must I love her for your sake ; 



THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. 



Go fetch your Alice here," she said : 
Her eyelid quiver'd as she spake. 

And down I went to fetch my bride : 

But, Alice, you were ill at ease ; 
This dress and that by turns you tried, 

Too fearful that you should not 
please. 
I loved you better for your fears, 

I knew you could not look but well ; 
And dews, that would have fall'n in 
tears, 

I kiss'd away before they fell. 

I watch'd the little flutterings, 

The doubt my mother would not see ; 
She spoke at large of many things, 

And at the last she spoke of me ; 
And turning look'd upon your face, 

As near this door you sat apart, 
And rose, and, with a silent grace 

Approaching, press'd you heart to 
heart. 

Ah, well — but sing the foolish song 

I gave you, Alice, on the day 
When, arm in arm, we went along, 

A pensive pair, and you were gay 
With bridal flowers — that I may seem, 

As in the nights of old, to lie 
Beside the mill-wheel in the stream, 

While those full chestnuts whisper 
by. 

It is the miller's daughter, 

And she is grown so dear, so dear, 
That I would be the jewel 

That trembles at her ear : 
For hid in ringlets day and night, 
I 'd touch her neck so warm and 
white. 

And I would be the girdle 
! About her dainty, dainty waist, 
And her heart would beat against me, 

In sorrow and in rest : 
And I should know if it beat right, 
I 'd clasp it round so close and tight. 

And I would be the necklace, 
And all day long to fall and rise 

Upon her balmy bosom, 

With her laughter or her sighs, 

And I would lie so light, so light, 

I scarce should be unclasp'd at night. 



A trifle, sweet ! which true love spells — 

True love interprets — right alone. 
His light upon the letter dwells, 

For all the spirit is his own. 
So, if I waste words now, in truth 

You must blame Love. His early 
rage 
Had force to make me rhyme in youth, 

And makes me talk too much in age. 

And now those vivid hours are gone, 

Like mine own life to me thou art, 
Where Past and Present, wound in one, 

Do make a garland for the heart': 
So sing that other song I made, 

Half-anger'd with my happy lot, 
The day, when in the chestnut shade 

I found the blue Forget-me-not. 

Love that hath us in the net, 
Can he pass, and we forget ? 
Many suns arise and set. 
Many a chance the years beget. 
Love the gift is Love the debt. 
Even so. 

Love is hurt with jar and fret. 
Love is made a vague regret. 
Eyes with idle tears are wet. 
Idle habit links us yet. 
What is love ? for we forget : 
Ah, no ! no ! 



Look thro' mine eyes with thine. True 
wife, 
Round my true heart thine arms en- 
twine ; 
My other dearer life in life, 

Look thro' my very soul with thine ! 
Untouch'd with any shade of years, 

May those kind eyes forever dwell ! 
They have not shed a many tears, 
Dear eyes, since first I knew them 
well. 

Yet tears they shed : they had their 
part 

Of sorrow : for when time was ripe, 
The still affection of the heart 

Became an outward breathing type, 
That into stillness past again, 

And left a want unknown before ; 
Although the loss that brought us pain, 

That loss but made us love the more, 



FA TIM A. — CENONE. 



25 



With farther lookings on. The kiss, 

The woven arms, seem but to be 
Weak symbols of the settled bliss, 

The comfort, I have found in thee : 
But that' God bless thee, dear — who 
wrought 
Two spirits to one equal mind — 
With blessings beyond hope or 
thought, 
With blessings which no words can 
find. 

Arise, and let us wander forth, 

To yon old mill across the wolds ; 
For look, the sunset, south and north, 

Winds all the vale in rosy folds, 
And fires your narrow casement glass, 

Touching the sullen pool below : 
On the chalk-hill the bearded grass 

Is dry and dewless. Let us go. 



FATIMA. 

O Love, Love, Love ! O withering 
might ! 

sun, that from thy noonday height 
Shudderest when I strain my sight, 
Throbbing thro' all thy heat and light, 

Lo, falling from my constant mind, 
Lo, parch' d and wither' d, deaf and 

blind, 
I whirl like leaves in roaring wind. 

Last night I wasted hateful hours 
Below the city's eastern towers : 

1 thirsted for the brooks, the showers : 
I roll'd among the tender flowers : 

I crush'd them on my breast, my 

mouth : 
I look'd athwart the burning drouth 
Of that long desert to the south. 

Last night, when some one spoke his 

name, 
From my swift blood that went and 

came 
A thousand little shafts of flame 
Were shiver'd in my narrow frame. 
O Love, O fire ! once he drew 
With one long kiss my whole soul 

thro' 
My lips, as sunlight drinketh dew. 



Before he mounts the hill, I know 
He cometh quickly : from below 
Sweet gales, as from deep gardens, 

blow 
Before him, striking on my brow. 
In my dry brain my spirit soon, 
Down - deepening from swoon to 

swoon, 
Faints like a dazzled morning moon. 

The wind sounds like a silver wire, 
And from beyond the noon a fire 
Is pour'd upon the hills, and nigher 
The skies stoop down in their desire ; 
And, isled in sudden seas of light, 
My -heart, pierced thro' with fierce 

delight, 
Bursts into blossom in his sight. 

My whole soul waiting silently, 

All naked in a sultry sky, 

Droops blinded with his shining eye : 

I will possess him or will die. 

I will grow round him in his place, 
Grow, live, die looking on his face, 
Die, dying clasp'd in his embrace. 



CENONE. 

There lies a vale in Ida, lovelier 
Than all the valleys of Ionian hills. 
The swimming vapo^ slopes athwart 

the glen, 
Puts forth an arm, and creeps from 

pine to pine, 
And loiters, slowly drawn. On either 

hand 
The lawns and meadow-ledges midway 

down 
Hang rich in flowers, and far below 

them roars 
The long brook falling thro' the clov'n 

ravine 
In cataract after cataract to the sea. 
Behind the valley topmost Gargarus 
Stands up and takes the morning : but 

in front 
The gorges, opening wide apart, reveal 
Troas and Ilion's column'd citadel, 
The crown of Troas. 

Hither came at noon 
Mournful QEnone, wandering forlorn 



26 



CENONE. 



Of Paris, once her playmate on the 
hills. 

Her cheek had lost the rose, and round 
her neck 

Floated her hair or seem'd to float in 
rest. 

She, leaning on a fragment twined with 
vine, 

Sang to the stillness, till the mountain- 
shade 

Sloped downward to her seat from the 
upper cliff. 

" O mother Ida, many-fountain' d 

Ida, 
Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
. For now the noonday quiet holds the 

hill: 
The grasshopper is silent in the grass : 
The lizard, with his shadow on the 

stone, 
Rests like a shadow, and the cicala 

sleeps. 
The purple flowers droop : the golden 

bee 
Is lily-cradled : I alone awake. 
My eyes are full of tears, my heart of 

love, 
My heart is breaking, and my eyes are 

dim, 
And I am all aweary of my life. 

" O mother Ida, many-fountain'd 

Ida, » 
Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
Hear me O Earth, hear me O Hills, 

O Caves 
That house the cold crown' d snake ! 

O mountain brooks, 
I am the daughter of a River-Gcd, 
Hear me, for I will speak, and build 

up all 
My sorrow with my song, as yonder 

walls 
Rose slowly to a music slowly breathed, 
A cloud that gather'd shape : ior it 

may be 
That, while I speak of it, a little while 
My heart may wander from its deeper 

woe. 

" O mother Ida, many-fountain'd 
Ida, 
Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 



I waited underneath the dawning hills, 
Aloft the mountain lawn was dewy- 
dark, 
And dewy-dark aloft the mountain 

pine : 
Beautiful Paris, evil-hearted Paris, 
Leading a jet-black goat white-horn'd, 

white-hooved, 
Came up from reedy Simois all alone. 

" O mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 

Far-off the torrent cali'd me from the 
cleft : 

Far up the solitary morning smote 

The streaks of virgin snow. With 
down-dro] :t eyes 

I sat alone : white-breasted like a star 

Fronting the dawn he moved ; a leop- 
ard skin 

Droop 'd from his shoulder, but his 
sunny hair 

Cluster'd about his temples like a 
God's ; 

And his cheek brighten'd as the foam- 
bow brightens 

When the wind blows the foam, and 
all my heart 

Went forth to embrace him coming 
ere he came. 

" Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
He smiled, and opening out his miik- 

white palm 
Disclosed a fruit of pure Hesperian 

gold, 
That smelt ambrosially, and while I 

look'd 
And listen 'd, the full-flowing river of 

speech 
Came down upon my heart. 

" ' My own CEnone, 
Beautiful-brow'd QEnone, my own soul, 
Behold this fruit, whose gleaming rind 

ingrav'n 
" For the most fair," would seem to 

award it thine, 
As lovelier than whatever Oread haunt 
The knolls of Ida, loveliest in all grace 
Of movement, and the charm oi mar- 
ried brows.' 

" Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
He prest the blossom of his lips to 
mine. 



(ENONE. 



27 



And added, ' This was cast upon the 
board, 

When all the full-faced presence of the 
Gods 

Ranged in the halls of Peleus ; where- 
upon 

Rose feud, with question unto whom 
't were due : 

But light-foot Iris brought it yester- 
eve, 

Delivering, that to me, by common 
voice 

Elected umpire, Here comes to-day, 

Pallas and Aphrodite, claiming each _ 

This meed of fairest. Thou, within 
the cave 

Behind yon whispering tuft of oldest 
pine, 

Mayst well behold them unbeheld, un- 
heard 

Hear all, and see thy Paris judge of 
Gods.' 

" Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
It was the deep midnoon : one silvery 

cloud 
Had lost his way between the piny 

sides 
Of this long glen. Then to the bower 

they came, 
Naked they came to that smooth- 
swarded bower, 
And at their feet the crocus brake like 

fire, 
Violet, amaracus, and asphodel, 
Lotos and lilies : and a wind arose, 
And overhead the wandering ivy and 

vine, 
This way and that, in many a wild 

festoon 
Ran riot, garlanding the gnarled boughs 
With bunch and berry and flower thro' 

and thro'. 

" O mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
On the tree-tops a crested peacock lit, 
And o'er him flow'd a golden cloud, 

and lean'd 
Upon him, slowly dropping fragrant 

dew. 
Then first I heard the voice of her, to 

whom 
Coming thro' Heaven, like a light that 

grows 



Larger and clearer, with one mind the 

Gods 
Rise up for reverence. She to Paris 

made 
Proffer of royal power, ample rule 
Unquestion'd, overflowing revenue 
Wherewith to embellish state, ' from 

many a vale 
And river-sunder'd champaign clothed 

with corn, 
Or labor'd mines undrainable of ore. 
Honor,' she said, 'and homage, tax 

and toll, 
From many an inland town and haven 

large, 
Mast-throng'd beneath her shadowing 

citadel 
In glassy bays among her tallest tow- 
ers.' 

" O mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 

Still she spake on and still she spake 
of power, 

1 Which in all action is the end of all ; 

Power fitted to the season ; wisdom- 
bred 

And throned of wisdom — from all 
neighbor crowns 

Alliance and allegiance, till thy hand 

Fail from the sceptre-staff. Such boon 
from me, 

From me, Heaven's Queen, Paris, to 
thee king-born, 

A shepherd all thy life but yet king- 
born, 

Should come most welcome, seeing 
men, in power 

Only, are likest gods, who have attain'd 

Rest in a happy place and quiet seats 

Above the thunder, with undying bliss 

In knowledge of their own supremacy.' 

"Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
She ceased, and Paris held the costly 

fruit 
Out at arm's-length, so much the 

thought of power 
Flatter'd his spirit ; but Pallas where 

she stood 
Somewhat apart, her clear and bared 

limbs 
O'erthwarted with the brazen-headed 

spear 
Upon her pearly shoulder leaning cold, 



28 



CENONE. 



The while, above, her full and earnest 

eye 
Over her snow-cold breast and angry 

cheek 
Kept watch, waiting decision, made 

reply. 

" ' Self- reverence, self - knowledge, 
self-control, 

These three alone lead life to sovereign 
power. 

Yet not for power, (power of herself 

Would come uncall'd for) but to live 
by law, 

Acting the law we live by without 
fear ; 

And, because right is right, to follow 
right 

Were wisdom in the scorn of conse- 
quence.' 

"Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
Again she said : ' I woo thee not with 

gifts. 
Sequel of guerdon could not alter me 
To fairer. Judge thou me by what I 

am, 
So shalt thou find me fairest. 

Yet, indeed, 
If gazing on divinity disrobed 
Thy mortal eyes are frail to judge of 

fair, 
Unbiass'd by self-profit, oh ! rest thee 

sure 
That I shall love thee well and cleave 

to thee, 
So that my vigor, wedded to thy blood, 
Shall strike within thy pulses, like a 

God's, 
To push thee forward thro' a life of 

shocks, 
Dangers, and deeds, until endurance 

grow 
Sinew'd with action, and the full-grown 

will, 
Circled thro' all experiences, pure law, 
Commeasure perfect freedom.' 

" Here she ceased, 
And Paris ponder' d, and I cried, ' O 

Paris, 
Give it to Pallas ! ' but he heard me 

not, 
Or hearing would not hear me, woe is 

me ! 



"O mother Ida, many-fountain'd 

Ida, 
Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
Idalian Aphrodite beautiful, 
Fresh as the foam, new-bathed in 

Paphian wells, 
With rosy slender fingers backward 

drew 
From her warm brows and bosom her 

deep hair 
Ambrosia^ golden round her lucid 

throat 
And shoulder : from the violets her 

light foot 
Shone rosy- white, and o'er her rounded 

form 
Between the shadows of the vine- 
bunches 
Floated the glowing sunlights, as she 

moved. 

"Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
She with a subtle smile in her mild 

eyes, 
The herald of her triumph, drawing 

nigh 
Half-whisper'd in his ear, ' I promise 

thee 
The fairest and most loving wife in. 

Greece.' 
She spoke and laugh'd : I shut my 

sight for fear : 
But when I look'd, Paris had raised 

his arm, 
And I beheld great Here's angry eyes, 
As she withdrew into the golden cloud, 
And I was left alone within the bower ; 
And from that time to this I am alone, 
And I shall be alone until I die. 

" Yet, mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 

Fairest — why fairest wife? am I not 
fair? 

My love hath told me so a thousand 
times. 

Methinks I must be fair, for yesterday, 

When I past by, a wild and wanton 
pard, 

Eyed like the evening star, with play- 
ful tail 

Crouch'd fawning in the weed. Most 
loving is she ? 

Ah me, my mountain shepherd, that 
my arms 



(ENONE. 



29 



Were wound about thee, and my hot 
lips prest 

Close, close to thine in that quick-fall- 
ing dew 

Of fruitful kisses, thick as Autumn rains 
Flash in the pools of whirling Simois. 

" O mother, hear me yet before I die. 

They came, they cut away my tallest 
pines, 

My dark tall pines, that plumed the 
craggy ledge 

High over the blue gorge, and all be- 
tween 

The snowy peak and snow-white cata- 
ract 

Foster'd the callow eaglet — from be- 
neath 

Whose thick mysterious boughs in the 
dark morn 

The panther's roar came muffled, while 
m I sat 

Low in the valley. Never, never more 

Shall lone CEnone see the morning 
mist 

Sweep thro' them ; never see them 
overlaid 

With narrow moon-lit slips of silver 
cloud, 

Between the loud stream and the trem- 
bling stars. 

" O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
I wish that somewhere in the ruin'd 

folds, 
Among the fragments tumbled from 

the glens, 
Or the dry thickets, I could meet with 

her, 
The Abominable, that uninvited came 
Into the fair Pelei'an banquet-hall, 
And cast the golden fruit upon the 

board, 
And bred this change ; that I might 

speak my mind, 
And tell her to her face how much I hate 
Her presence, hated both of Gods and 

men. 

" O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
Hath he not sworn his love a thousand 

. times, 
In this green valley, under this green 
hill, 



Ev'n on this hand, and sitting on this 

stone ? 
Seal'd it with kisses? water' d it with 

tears ? 
O happy tears, and how unlike to 

these ! 
O happy Heaven, how canst thou see 

my face ? 
O happy earth, how canst thou bear 

my weight ? 

death, death, death, thou ever-float- 

ing cloud, 
There are enough unhappy on this 

earth, 
Pass by the happy souls, that love to 

live : 

1 pray thee, pass before my light of 

life, 
And shadow all my soul, that I may die. 
Thou weighest heavy on the heart 

within, 
Weigh heavy on my eyelids : let me die. 

" O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
I will not die alone, for fiery thoughts 
Do shape themselves within me, more 

and more, 
Whereof I catch the issue, as I hear 
Dead sounds at night come from the 

inmost hills, 
Like footsteps upon wool. I dimly see 
My far-off doubtful purpose, as a mother 
Conjectures of the features of her child 
Ere it is born : her child ! — a shudder 

comes 
Across me : never child be born of me, 
Unblest, to vex me with his father's 

eyes ! 

" O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
Hear me, O earth. I will not die alone, 
Lest their shrill happy laughter come 

to me 
Walking the cold and starless road of 

Death 
Uncomforted, leaving my ancient love 
With the Greek woman. I will rise 

and go 
Down into Troy, and ere the stars 

coine forth 
Talk with the wild Cassandra, for she 

says 
A fire dances before her, and a sound 
Rings ever in her ears of armed men. 



3Q 



THE SISTERS. — THE PALACE OF ART. 



What this may be I know not, but 

I know 
That, wheresoe'er I am by night and 

• day, 
All earth and air seem only burning 
fire." 



THE SISTERS. 

We were two daughters of one race : 
She was the fairest in the face : 

The wind is blowing in turret and 
tree. 
They were together, and she fell ; 
Therefore revenge became me well. 

O the Earl was fair to see ! 

She died : she went to burning flame : 

She mix'd her ancient blood with 

shame. 

The wind is howling in turret and 

tree. 

Whole weeks and months, and early 

and late, 
To win his love I lay in wait : 
O the Earl was fair to see I 

I made a feast ; I bade him come ; 
I won his love, I brought him home. 

The wind is roaring in turret and tree. 
And after supper, on a bed, 
Upon my lap he laid his head : 

O the Earl was fair to see ! 

I kiss'd his eyelids into rest : 
His ruddy cheek upon my breast. 

The wind is raging in turret and tree. 
I hated him with the hate of hell, 
But I loved his beauty passing well. 

O the Earl was fair to see ! 

I rose up in the silent night : 

I made my dagger sharp and bright. 

The wind is raving in turret and tree. 
As half-asleep his breath he drew, 
Three times I stabb'd him th*o' and 
thro'. 

O the Earl was fair to see I 

I curl'd and comb'd his comely head, 
He look'd so grand when he was dead. 

The wind is blowing in turret and 
tree. 
I wrapt his body in the sheet, 
And laid him at his mother's feet. 

O the Earl was fair to see i 



TO 



WITH THE FOLLOWING POEM. 

I send you here a sort of allegory, 

(For you will understand it) of a soul, 

A sinful soul possess'd of many gifts, 

A spacious garden full of flowering 
weeds, 

A glorious Devil, large in heart and 
brain, 

That did love Beauty only, (Beauty 
seen 

In all varieties of mould and mind) 

And Knowledge for its beauty ; or if 
Good, 

Good only for its beauty, seeing not 

That Beauty, Good, and Knowledge 
are three sisters 

That doat upon each other, friends to 
man, 

Living together under the same roof, 

And never can be sunder'd without 
tears. 

And he that shuts Love out, in turn 
shall be 

Shut out from Love, and on her thresh- 
old lie 

Howling in outer darkness. Not for 
this 

Was common clay ta'en from the com- 
mon earth, 

Moulded by God, and temper'd with 
the tears 

Of angels to the perfect shape of man. 



THE PALACE OF ART. 

I built my soul a lordly pleasure- 
house, 
Wherein at ease for aye to dwell. 
I said, " O Soul, make merry and ca- 
rouse, 
Dear soul, for all is well." 

A huge crag-platform, smooth as bur- 
nish'd brass, 
I chose. The ranged ramparts bright 
From level meadow-bases of deep grass 
Suddenly scaled the light. 

Thereon I built it firm. Of ledge or 
shelf 
The rock rose clear, or winding stair. 



THE PALACE OF ART. 



3i 



My soul would live alone unto herself 
In her high palace there. 

And " while the world runs round and 
round," I said, 
" Reign thou apart, a quiet king, 
Still as, while Saturn whirls, his stead- 
fast shade 
Sleeps on his luminous ring." 

To which my soul made answer readily : 

" Trust me, in bliss I shall abide 
In this great mansion, that is built for 
me, 
So royal-rich and wide." 



Four courts I made, East, West and 
South and North, 
In each a squared lawn, wherefrom 
The golden gorge of dragons spouted 
forth 
A flood of fountain-foam. 

And round the cool green courts there 
ran a row 
Of cloisters, branch'd like mighty 
woods, 
Echoing all night to that sonorous flow 
Of spouted fountain-floods. 

And round the roofs a gilded gallery 
That lent broad verge to distant 
lands, 
Far as the wild swan wings, to where 
the sky 
Dipt down to sea and sands. 

From those four jets four currents in 
one swell 
Across the mountain stream' d below 
In misty folds, that floating as they fell 
Lit up a torrent-bow. 

And high on every peak a statue 
seem'd 
To hang on tiptoe, tossing up 
A cloud of incense of all odor steam'd 
From out a golden cup. 

So that she thought, " And who shall 
gaze upon 
My palace with unblinded eyes, 
While this great bow will waver in the 
sun, 
And that sweet incense rise ? " 



For that sweet incense rose and never 
fail'd, 
And, while day sank or mounted 
higher, 
The light aerial gallery, golden-rail'd, 

Burnt like a fringe of fire. 
Likewise the deep-set windows, stain'd 
and traced, 
Would seem slow-flaming crimson 
fires 
From shadow' d grots of arches inter- 
laced, 
And tipt with frost-like spires. 



Full of long-sounding corridors it was, 

That over-vaulted grateful gloom, 
Thro' which the livelong day my soul 
did pass, 
Well-pleased, from room to room. 

Full of great rooms and small the pal- 
ace stood, 
All various, each a perfect whole 
From living Nature, fit for every mood 
And change of my still soul. 

For some were hung with arras green 
and blue, 
Showing a gaudy summer-morn, 
Where with pufPd cheek the belted 
hunter blew 
His wreathed bugle-horn. 

One seem'd all dark and red, — a tract 
of sand, 
And some one pacing there alone, 
Who paced forever in a glimmering 
land, 
Lit with a low large moon. 

One show'd an iron coast and angry 
waves. 
You seem'd to hear them climb and 
fall 
And roar rock-thwarted under bellow- 
ing caves, 
Beneath the windy wall. 

And one, a full-fed river winding slow 

By herds upon an endless plain, 
The ragged rims of thunder brooding 
low, 
With shadow-streaks of rain. 



32 



THE PALACE OF ART. 



And one, the reapers at their sultry 
toil, 
In front they bound the sheaves. 
Behind 
Were realms of upland, prodigal in 
oil, 
And hoary to the wind. 

And one, a foreground black with 
stones and slags, 
Beyond, a line of heights, and higher 
All barr'd with long white cloud the 
scornful crags, 
And highest, snow and fire. 

And one, an English home, — gray 
twilight pour'd 
On dewy pastures, dewy trees, 
Softer than sleep, — all things in order 
stored, 
A haunt of ancient Peace. 

Nor these alone, but every landscape 
fair, 
As fit for every mood of mind, 
Or gay, or grave, or sweet, or stern, 
was there, 
Not less than truth design'd. 



Or the maid-mother by a crucifix, 

In tracts of pasture sunny-warm, 
Beneath branch-work of costly sar- 
donyx 
Sat smiling, babe in arm. 

Or in a clear-wall'd city on the sea, 
Near gilded organ-pipes, her hair 
Wound with white roses, slept St. 
Cecily ; 
An angel look'd at her. 

Or thronging all one porch of Paradise, 

A group of Houris bow'd to see 
The dying Islamite, with hands and 
eyes 
That said, We wait for thee. 

Or mythic Uther's deeply-wounded son 
In some fair space of sloping greens 
Lay, dozing in the vale of Avalon, 
And watch'd by weeping queens. 

Or hollowing one hand against his ear, 
To list a footfall, ere he saw 



The wood-nymph, stay'd the Auso- 
nian king to hear 
Of wisdom and of law. 

Or over hills with peaky tops engrail'd, 

And many a tract of palm and rice, 
The throne of Indian Cama slowly 
sail'd 
A summer fann'd with spice. 

Or sweet Europa's mantle blew un- 
clasp' d, 
From off her shoulder backward 
borne : 
From one hand droop 'd a crocus : one 
hand grasp'd 
The mild bull's golden horn. 

Or else flush'd Ganymede, his rosy 
thigh 
Half-buried in the Eagle's down, 
Sole as a flying star shot thro' the sky 
Above the pillar' d town. 

Nor these alone : but every legend fair 
Which the supreme Caucasian mind 
Carved out of Nature for itself, was 
there, 
Not less than life, design'd. 



Then in the towers I placed great bells 
that swung, 
Moved of themselves, with silver 
sound ; 
And with choice paintings of wise 
men I hung 
The royal dais round. 

For there was Milton like a seraph 
strong, 
Beside him Shakespeare bland and 
mild; 
And there the world -worn Dante 
grasp'd his song^, 
And somewhat grimly smiled. 

And there the Ionian father of the 
rest ; 
A million wrinkles carved his skin ; 
A hundred winters snow'd upon his 
breast, 
From cheek and throat and chin. 



THE PALACE OF ART. 



33 



Above, the fair hall-ceiling stately-set 

Many an arch high up did lift, 
And angels rising and descending met 
With -interchange of gift. 

Below was all mosaic choicely plann'd 

With cycles of the human tale 
Of this wide world, the times of every 
land 
So wrought, they will not fail. 

The people here, a beast of burden 
slow, 
Toil'd onward, prick'd with goads 
and stings ; 
Here play'd, a tiger, rolling to and fro 
The heads and crowns of kings ; 

Here rose, an athlete, strong to break 
or bind 
All force in bonds that might endure, 
And here once more like some sick 
man declined, 
And trusted any cure. 

But over these she trod : and those 
great bells 
Began to chime. She took her 
throne : 
She sat betwixt the shining Oriels, 
To sing her songs alone. 

And thro' the topmost Oriels' color'd 
flame 
Two godlike faces gazed below ; 
Plato the wise, and large-brow' d Veru- 
lam, 
The first of those who know. 

And all those names, that in their 
motion were 
Full - welling fountain - heads of 
change, 
Betwixt the slender shafts were bla- 
zon 'd fair 
In diverse raiment strange : 

Thro' which the lights, rose, amber, 
emerald, blue, 
Flush'd in her temples and her eyes, 
And from her lips, as morn from Mem- 
non, drew 
Rivers of melodies. 

No nightingale delighteth to prolong 
Her low preamble all alone, 



More than my soul to hear her echo'd 
song 
Throb thro' the ribbed stone ; 

Singing and murmuring' in her feastful 
mirth, 
Joying to feel herself alive, 
Lord over Nature, Lord of the visible 
earth, 
Lord of the senses five ; 

Communing with herself: "All these 
are mine, 
And let the world have peace or 
wars, 
'T is one to me." She — when young 
night divine 
Crown 'd dying day with stars, 

Making sweet close of his delicious 

toils — 

Lit light in wreaths and anadems, 

And pure quintessences of precious 

oils 

In hollow'd moons of gems, 

To mimic heaven ; and clapt her hands 
and cried, 
" I marvel if my still delight 
In this great house so royal-rich, and 
wide, 
Be flatter'd to the height. 

" O all things fair to sate my various 
eyes ! 

shapes and hues that please me 

well ! 
O silent faces of the Great and Wise, 
My Gods, with whom I dwell 1 

" O God-like isolation which art mine, 

1 can but count thee perfect gain, 
What time I watch the darkening 

droves of swine 
That range on yonder plain. 

" In filthy sloughs they roll a prurient 
skin, 
They graze and wallow, breed and 
sleep ; 
And oft some brainless devil enters in, 
And drives them to the deep." 

Then of the moral instinct would she 
prate, 
And of the rising from the dead, 



34 



THE PALACE OF ART. 



As hers by right of full-accomplish'd 
Fate; 
And at the last she said : 

" I take possession of man's mind and 
deed. 
I care not what the sects may brawl. 
I sit as God holding no form of creed, 
But contemplating all." 



Full oft the riddle of the painful earth 

Flash'd thro' her as she sat alone, 
Yet not the less held she her solemn 
mirth, 
And intellectual throne. 

And so she throve and prosper' d : so 
three years 
She prosper' d : on the fourth she 
fell, 
Like Herod, when the shout was in 
his ears, 
Struck thro' with pangs of hell. . 

Lest she should fail and perish utterly, 

God, before whom ever lie bare 
The abysmal deeps of Personality, 
Plagued her with sore despair. 

When she would think, where'er she 

turn'd her sight, 

The airy hand confusion wrought, 

Wrote " Mene, mene," and divided 

quite 

The kingdom of her thought. 

Deep dread and loathing of her soli- 
tude 
Fell on her, from which mood was 
born 
Scorn of herself; again, from out that 
mood 
Laughter at her self-scorn. 

" What ! is not this my place of 
strength," she said, 
" My spacious mansion built for me, 
Whereof the strong foundation-stones 
were laid 
Since my first memory? " 

But in dark corners of her palace stood 
Uncertain shapes ; and unawares 



On white-eyed phantasms weeping 
tears of blood, 
And horrible nightmares, 

And hollow shades enclosing hearts 
of flame, 
And, with dim fretted foreheads all, 
On corpses three-months old at noon 
she came, 
That stood against the wall. 

A spot of dull stagnation, without light 
Or power of movement, seem'd my 
soul, 
'Mid onward-sloping motions infinite 
Making for one sure goal. 

A still salt pool, lock'd in with bars of 
sand; 
Left on the shore ; that hears all night 
The plunging seas draw backward from 
the land 
Their moon-led waters white. 

A star that with the choral starry dance 
Join'd not, but stood, and standing 
saw 
The hollow orb of moving Circum- 
stance 
Roll'd round by one fix'd law. 

Back on herself her serpent pride had 
curl'd. 
" No voice," she shriek'd in that 
lone hall, 
" No voice breaks thro' the stillness 
of this world : 
One deep, deep silence all ! " 

She, mouldering with the dull earth's 
mouldering sod, 
Inwrapt tenfold in slothful shame, 
Lay there exiled from eternal God, 
Lost to her place and name ; 

And death and life she hated equally, 

And nothing saw, for her despair, 
But dreadful time, dreadful eternity, 
No comfort anywhere ; 

Remaining utterly confused with fears, 

And ever worse with growing time, 
And ever unrelieved by dismal tears, 
And all alone in crime : 

Shut up as in a crumbling tomb, girt 
round 
With blackness as a solid wall, 



LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE. 



35 



Far off she seem'd to hear the dully 
sound 
Of human footsteps fall. 

As in strange lands a traveller walking 
slow, 
In doubt and great perplexity, 
A little before moon-rise hears the low 
Moan of an unknown sea ; 

And knows not if it be thunder or a 
sound 
Of rocks thrown down, or one deep 
cry 
Of great wild beasts ; then thinketh, 
" I have found 
A new land, but I die." 

She howl'd aloud, " I am on fire 
within. 
There comes no murmur of reply. 
What is it that will take away my sin, 
And save me lest I die ? " 

So when four years were wholly fin- 
ished, 
She threw her royal robes away. 
" Make me a cottage in the vale," she 
said, 
" Where I may mourn and pray. 

" Yet pull not down my palace towers, 
that are 
So lightly, beautifully built : 
Perchance I may return with others 
there 
When I have purged my guilt." 



LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

Of me you shall not win renown : 
You thought to break a country heart 

For pastime, ere you went to town. 
At me you smiled, but unbeguiled 

I saw the snare, and 'I retired : 
The daughter of a hundred Earls, 

You are not one to be desired. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

I know you proud to bear your name, 
Your pride is yet no mate for mine, 

Too proud to care from whence I 
came. 
Nor would I break for your sweet sake 

A heart that doats on truer charms. 



A simple maiden in her flower 
Is worth a hundred coats-of-arms. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

Some meeker pupil you must find, 
For were you queen of all that is, 

I- could not stoop to such a mind. 
You sought to prove how I could love, 

And my disdain is my reply. 
The lion on your old stone gates 

Is not more cold to you than I. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

You put strange memories in my 
head. 
Not thrice your branching limes have 
blown 

Since I beheld young Laurence dead. 
Oh your sweet eyes, your low replies : " 

A great enchantress you may be ; 
But there was that across his throat 

Which you had hardly cared to see. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

When thus he met his mother's view, 
She had the passions of her kind, 

She spake some certain truths of you. 
Indeed I heard one bitter word 

That scarce is fit for you to hear ; 
Her manners had not that repose 

Which stamps the caste of Vere de 
Vere. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

There stands a spectre in your hall : 
The guilt of blood is at your door : 

You changed a wholesome heart to 
gall. 
You held your course without remorse, 

To make him trust his modest worth, 
And, last, you fix'd a vacant stare, 

And slew him with your noble birth. 

Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere, 

From yon blue heavens above us 
bent 
The grand old gardener and his wife 

Smile at the claims of long descent. 
Howe'er it be, it seems to me, 

'T is only noble to be good. 
Kind hearts are more than coronets, 

And simple faith than Norman blood. 

I know you, Clara Vere de Vere : 
You pine among your halls and 
towers : 



36 THE MAY QUEEN. 



The languid light of your proud eyes 

Is wearied of the rolling hours. 
In glowing health, with boundless 
wealth, 
But sickening of a vague disease, 
You know so ill to deal with time, 
You needs must play such pranks as 
these. 



Clara, Clara Vere de Vere, 

If Time be heavy on your hands, 
Are there no beggars at your gate, 

Nor any poor about your lands ? 
Oh ! teach the orphan-boy to read, 

Or teach the orphan-girl to sew, 
Pray Heaven for a human heart, 

And let the foolish yeoman go. 



THE MAY QUEEN. 

You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear ; 

To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year; 

Of all the glad New-year, mother, the maddest merriest day ; 

For I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be Queen o' the May. 

There 's many a black black eye, they say, but none so bright as mine ; 

There 's Margaret and Mary, there 's Kate and Caroline : 

But none so fair as little Alice in all the land they say, 

So I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be Queen o' the May. 

I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake, 

If you do not call me loud when the day begins to break : 

But I must gather knots of flowers, and buds and garlands gay, 

For I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be Queen o' the May. 

As I came up the valley whom think ye should I see, 

But Robin leaning on the bridge beneath the hazel-tree ? 

He thought of that sharp look, mother, I gave him yesterday, — 

But I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be Queen o' the May. 

He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I was all in white, 
And I ran by him without speaking, like a flash of light. 
They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not what they say, 
For I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be Queen o' the May. 

They say he 's dying all for love, but that can never be : 

They say his heart is breaking, mother — what is that to me ? 

There 's many a bolder lad 'ill woo me any summer day, 

And I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be Queen o' the May. 

Little Effie shall go with me to-morrow to the green, 

And you '11 be there, too, mother, to see me made the Queen ; 

For the shepherd lads on everv side 'ill come from far away, 

And I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be Queen o' the May. 

The honeysuckle round the porch has wov'n its wavy bowers, 
And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers ; 
And the wild marsh-marigold shines like fire in swamps and hollows gray, 
And I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be Queen o' the May. 

The night-winds come and go, mother, upon the meadow-grass, 

And the happy stars above them seem to brighten as they pass ; 

There will not be a drop of rain the whole of the livelong day, 

And I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be Queen o' the May. 



NEW-YEAR'S EVE. 37 

All the valley, mother, 'ill be fresh and green and still, 

And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the hill, 

And the rivulet in the flowery dale 'ill merrily glance and play, 

For J 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be Queen o' the May. 

So you must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear, 
To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year : 
To-morrow 'ill be of all the year the maddest merriest day, 
For I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be Queen o' the May. 



NEW-YEAR'S EVE. 

If you 're waking, call me early, call me early, mother dear, 

For I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year. 

It is the last New-year that I shall ever see, 

Then you may lay me low i' the mould and think no more of me. 

To-night I saw the sun set : he set and left behind 
The good old year, the dear old time, and all my peace of mind ; 
And the New-year 's coming up, mother, but I shall never see 
The blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree. 

Last May we made a crown of flowers : we had a merry day ; 
Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me Queen of May ; 
And we danced about the may-pole and in the hazel copse, 
Till Charles's Wain came out above the tall white chimney-tops. 

There 's not a flower on all the hills : the frost is on the pane : 
I only wish to live till the snowdrops come again : 
I wish the snow would melt and the sun come out on high : 
I long to see a flower so before the day I die. 

The building rook 'ill caw from the windy tall elm-tree, 

And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea, 

And the swallow 'ill come back again with summer o'er the wave, 

But 1 shall lie alone, mother, within the mouldering grave. 

Upon the chaneel-casement, and upon that grave of mine, 
In the early early morning the summer sun 'ill shine, 
Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the hill, 
When you are warm-asleep, mother, and all the world is still. 

When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waning light 
You '11 never see me more in the long gray fields at night ; 
When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow cool 
On the oat-grass and the sword-grass, and the bulrush in the pool. 

You '11 bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthorn shade, 
And you '11 come sometimes and see me where I am lowly laid. 
I shall not forget you, mother, I shall hear you when you pass, 
With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant grass. 

I have been wild and wayward, but you '11 forgive me now ; 
You '11 kiss me, my own mother, and forgive me ere I go ; 
Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be wild, 
You should not fret for me, mother, you have another child. 



38 THE MAY QUEEN. 

If I can I '11 come again, mother, from out my resting-place ; 
Tho' you '11 not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face ; 
Tho' I cannot speak a word, I shall hearken what you say, 
And be often, often with you when you think I 'm far away. 

Good-night, good-night, when I have said good-night forevermore, 
And you see me carried out from the threshold of the door ; 
Don't let Effie come to see me till my grave be growing green : 
She '11 be a better child to you than ever I have been. 

She '11 find my garden-tools upon the granary floor : 
Let her take 'em : they are hers : I shall never garden more : 
But tell her, when I 'm gone, to train the rose-bush that I set 
About the parlor-window and the box of mignonette. 

Good-night, sweet mother : call me before the day is born. 
All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn ; 
But I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year, 
So, if you 're waking, call me, call me early, mother dear. 



CONCLUSION. 

I thought to pass away before, and yet alive I am ; 
And in the fields all round I hear the bleating of the lamb. 
How sadly, I remember, rose the morning of the year ! 
To die before the snowdrop came, and now the violet 's here. 

O sweet is the new violet, that comes beneath the skies, 
And sweeter is the young lamb's voice to me that cannot rise, 
And sweet is all the land about, and all the flowers that blow, 
And sweeter far is death than life to me that long to go. 

It seem'd so hard at first, mother, to leave the blessed sun, 
And now it seems as hard to stay, and yet His will be done ! 
But still I think it can't be long before I find release ; 
And that good man, the clergyman, has told me words of peace. 

O blessings on his kindly voice and on his silver hair ! 

And blessings on his whole life long, until he meet me there ! 

blessings on his kindly heart and on his silver head ! 
A thousand times I blest him, as he knelt beside my bed. 

He taught me all the mercy, for he show'd me all the sin. 
Now, tho' my lamp was lighted late, there 's One will let me in : 
Nor would I now be well, mother, again, if that could be, 
For my desire is but to pass to Him that died for me. 

1 did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death-watch beat, 
There came a sweeter token when the night and morning meet : 
But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in mine, 
And Effie on the other side, and I will tell the sign. 

All in the wild March-morning I heard the angels call ; 
It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over all ; 
The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll, 
And in the wild March-morning I heard them call my soul. 



THE LOTOS-EATERS. 



39 



For lying broad awake I thought of you and Effie dear ; 
I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here ; 
With all my strength I pray'd for both, and so I felt resign'd, 
And up the valley came a swell of music on the wind. 

I thought that it was fancy, and I listen 'd in my bed, 
And then did something speak to me — I know not what was said ; 
For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my mind, 
And up the valley came again the music on the wind. 

But you were, sleeping ; and I said, " It 's not for them : it 's mine.' 
And if it comes three times, I thought, I take it for a sign. 
And once again it came, and close beside the window-bars, 
Then seem'd to go right up to Heaven and die among the stars. 

So now I think my time is near. I trust it is. I know 
The blessed music went that way my soul will have to go. 
And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day. 
But, Effie, you must comfort Iter when I am past away. 

And say to Robin a kind word, and tell him not to fret ; 
There 's many worthier than I, would make him happy yet. 
If I had lived — I cannot tell — I might have been his wife ; 
But all these things have ceased to be, with my desire of life. 

O look ! the sun begins to rise, the heavens are in a glow ; 

He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I know. 

And there I move no longer now, and there his light may shine — 

Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine. * 

O sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done 
The voice, that now is speaking, may be beyond the sun — 
For ever and for ever with those just souls and true — 
And what is life, that we should moan ? why make we such ado ? 

For ever and for ever, all in a blessed home — 
And there to wait a little while till you and Effie come — 
To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast — 
And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest. 



THE LOTOS-EATERS. 

" Courage ! " he said, and pointed 

toward the land, 
" This mounting wave will roll us 

shoreward soon." 
In the afternoon they came unto a land, 
In which it seemed always afternoon. 
All round the coast the languid air did 

swoon, 
Breathing like one that hath a weary 

dream. 
Full-faced above the valley stood the 



And like a downward smoke, the slen- 
der stream 

Along the cliff to fall and pause and 
fall did seem. 

A land of streams ! some, like a down- 
ward smoke, 

Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, 
did go ; 

And some thro' wavering lights and 
shadows broke, 

Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam 
below. 



4Q 



THE LOTOS-EATERS. 



They saw the gleaming river seaward 

flow 
From the inner land: far off, three 

mountain-tops, 
Three silent pinnacles of aged snow, 
Stood sunset- flush' d : and, dew'd with 

showery drops, 
Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the 

woven copse. 

The charmed sunset linger' d low 
adown 

In the red West : thro' mountain 
clefts the dale 

Was seen far inland, and the yellow 
down 

B order' d with palm, and many a wind- 
ing vale 

And meadow, set with slender galin- 
gale ; 

A land where all things always seem'd 
the same ! 

And round about the keel with faces 
pale, 

Dark faces pale against that rosy flame, 

The mild-eyed melancholy Lotos-eat- 
ers came. . 

Branches they bore of that enchanted 

stem, 
Laden with flower and fruit, whereof 

they gave 
To each, but whoso did receive of them, 
And taste, to him the gushing of the 

wave 
Far far away did seem to mourn and 

rave 
On alien shores ; and if his fellow 

spake, 
His voice was thin, as voices from the 

grave ; 
And deep-asleep he seem'd, yet all 

awake, 
And music in his ears his beating heart 

did make. 

They sat them down upon the yellow 
sand, 

Between the sun and moon upon the 
shore ; 

And sweet it was to dream of Father- 
land, 

Of child, and wife, and slave ; but 
evermore 



Most weary seem'd the sea, weary the 

oar, 
Weary the wandering fields of barren 

foam. 
Then some one said, " We will return 

no more " ; 
And all at once they sang, " Our 

island home 
Is far beyond the wave ; we will no 

longer roam." 

CHORIC SONG. 

i. 
There is sweet music here that softer 

falls 
Than petals from blown roses on the 

grass, 
Or night-dews on still waters between 

walls 
Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming 

pass ; 
Music that gentlier on the spirit lies, 
Than tir v d eyelids upon tir'd eyes ; 
Music that brings sweet sleep down 

from the blissful skies. 
Here are cool mosses deep, 
And thro' the moss the ivies creep, 
And in the stream the long-leaved 

flowers weep, 
And from the craggy ledge the poppy 

hangs in sleep. 

2. 

Why are we weigh' d upon with heavi- 
ness. 

And utterly consumed with sharp dis- 
tress, 

While all things else have rest from 
weariness ? 

All things have rest : why should we 
toil alone, 

We only toil, who are the first of things, 

And make perpetual moan, 

Still from one sorrow to another 
thrown : 

Nor ever fold our wings, 

And cease from wanderings, 

Nor steep our brows in slumber's holy 
balm ; 

Nor hearken what the inner spirit sings, 

" There is no joy but calm ! " 

Why should we only toil, the roof and 
crown of things ? 



THE LOTOS-EATERS. 



4i 



Lo ! in the middle of the wood, 

The folded leaf is woo'd from out the 

bud 
With winds upon the branch, and there 
Grows green and broad, and takes no 

care, 
Sun-steep'd at noon, and in the moon 
Nightly dew-fed ; and turning yellow 
Falls, and floats adown the air. 
Lo ! sweeten' d with the summer light, 
The full-juiced apple, waxing over- 
mellow, 
Drops in a silent autumn night. 
All its allotted length of days, 
The flower ripens in its place, 
Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath 

no toil, 
Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil. 

4- 
Hateful is the dark-blue sky, 
Vaulted o'er the dark-blue sea. 
Death is the end of life ; ah, whjH 



Should life all labor be ? 
"Let us alone. Time driveth onward 
> fast, 

And in a little while our lips are dumb. 

Let us alone. What is it that will last ? 

All things are taken from us, and be- 
come 

Portions and parcels of the dreadful 
Past. 

Let us alone. What pleasure can we 
have 

To war with evil ? Is there any peace 

In ever climbing up the climbing wave ? 

All things have rest, and ripen toward 
the grave 

In silence ; ripen, fall and cease : 

Give us long rest or death, dark death, 
or dreamful ease. 

5- 

How sweet it were, hearing the down- 
ward stream, 

With half-shut eyes ever to seem 

Falling asleep in a half-dream ! 

To dream and dream, like yonder am- 
ber light, 

Which will not leave the myrrh-bush 
on the height ; 

To hear each other's whisper'd speech ; 

Eating the Lotos day by day, 



To watch the crisping ripples on the 

beach, 
And tender curving lines of creamy 

spray ; 
To lend our hearts and spirits wholly 
To the influence of mild-minded mel- 
ancholy ; 
To muse and brood and live again in 

memory, 
With those old faces of our infancy 
Heap'd over with a mound of grass, 
Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an 
urn of brass ! 

6. 
Dear is the memory of our wedded 

lives, 
And dear the last embraces of our wives 
And their warm tears : but all hath 

suffer'd change ; 
For surely now our household hearths 

are cold : 
Our sons inherit us : our looks are 

strange : 
And we should come like ghosts to 

trouble joy. 
Or else the island princes over-bold 
Have eat our substance, and the min- 
strel sings 
Before them of" the ten-years' war in 

Troy, 
And our great deeds, as half-forgotten 

things. 
Is there confusion in the little isle ? 
Let what is broken so remain. 
The Gods are hard to reconcile : 
'T is hard to settle order once again. 
There is confusion worse than death, 
Trouble on trouble, pain on pain, 
Long labor unto aged breath, 
Sore task to hearts worn out with many 

wars 
And eyes grown dim with gazing on 

the pilot-stars. 



But, propt on beds of amaranth and 

moly, 
How sweet (while warm airs lull us, 

blowing lowly) 
With half-dropt eyelids still, 
Beneath a heaven dark and holy, 
To watch the long bright river draw- 
ing slowly 



42 



A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. 



His waters from the purple hill — 

To hear the dewy echoes calling 

From cave to cave thro' the thick- 
twined vine — 

To watch the emerald-color'd water 
falling 

Thro' many a wov'n acanthus-wreath 
divine ! 

Only to hear and see the far-off spark- 
ling brine, 

Only to hear were sweet, stretch'd out 
beneath the pine. 



The Lotos blooms below the barren 
peak : 

The Lotos blows by every winding 
creek : 

All day the wind breathes low with 
mellower tone : 

Thro' every hollow cave and alley lone 

Round and round the spicy downs the 
yellow Lotus-dust is blown. 

We have had enough of action, and of 
motion we, 

Roll'd to starboard, roll'd to larboard, 
when the surge was seething free, 

Where the wallowing monster spouted 
his foam-fountains in the sea. 

Let us swear an oath, and keep it with 
an equal mind, 

In the hollow Lotus-land to live and 
lie reclined 

On the hills like Gods together, care- 
less of mankind. 

For they lie beside their nectar, and 
the bolts are hurl'd 

Far below them in the valleys, and the 
clouds are lightly curl'd 

Round their golden houses, girdled 
with the gleaming world : 

Where they smile in secret, looking 
over wasted lands, 

Blight and famine, plague and earth- 
quake, roaring deeps and fiery 
sands, 

Clanging fights, and flaming towns, and 
" sinking ships, and praying hands. 

But they smile, they find a music cen- 
tred in a doleful song 

Steaming up, a lamentation and an an- 
cient tale of wrong, 

Like a tale of little meaning tho' the 
words are strong ; 



Chanted from an ill-used race of men 

that cleave the soil, 
Sow the seed, and reap the harvest 

with enduring toil, 
Storing yearly little dues of wheat, and 

wine and oil ; 
Till they perish and they suffer — some, 

't is whisper'd — down in hell 
Suffer endless anguish, others in Ely- 

sian valleys dwell, 
Resting weary limbs at last on beds of 

asphodel. 
Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet 

than toil, the shore 
Than labor in the deep mid-ocean, wind 

and wave and oar ; 
O rest ye, brother mariners, we will not 

wander more. 



A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. 

I read, before my eyelids dropt their 
shade, 
" The Legend of Good Women" 
long ago 
Sung by the morning star of song, who 
made 
His music heard below ; 

Dan Chaucer, the first warbler, whose 
sweet breath 
Preluded those melodious bursts, 
that fill 
The spacious times of great Elizabeth 
With sounds that echo still. 

And, for a while, the knowledge of his 
art 
Held me above the subject, as 
strong gales 
Hold swollen clouds from raining, tho' 
my heart, 
Brimful of those wild tales, 

Charged both mine eyes with tears. 
In every land 
I saw, wherever light illumineth, 
Beauty and anguish walking hand in 
hand 
The downward slope to death. 

Those far-renowned brides of ancient 
song 
Peopled the hollow dark, like burn- 
ing stars, 



A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. 



43 



And I heard sounds of insult, shame, 
and wrong, 
And trumpets blown for wars ; 

And clattering flints batter'd with 
clanging hoofs : 
And I saw crowds in column'd 
sanctuaries ; 
And forms that pass'd at windows and 
on roofs 
Of marble palaces ; 

Corpses across the threshold ; heroes 
tall 

Dislodging pinnacle and parapet 
Upon the tortoise creeping to the wall ; 

Lances in ambush set ; 

And high shrine-doors burst thro' with 
heated blasts 
That run before the fluttering 
tongues of fire ; 
White surf wind-scatter'd over sails 
and masts, 
And ever climbing higher ; 

Squadrons and squares of men in bra- 
zen plates, 
Scaffolds, still sheets of water, di- 
vers woes, 
Ranges of glimmering vaults with iron 
grates, 
And hush'd seraglios. 

So shape chased shape as swift as, 
when to land 
Bluster the winds and tides the 
self-same way, 
Crisp foam-flakes scud along the level 
sand, 
Torn from the fringe of spray. 

I started once, or seem'd to start in 
pain, 
Resolved on noble things, and 
strove to speak, 
As when a great thought strikes along 
the brain, 
And flushes all the cheek. 

And once my arm was lifted to hew 
down 

A cavalier from off his saddle-bow, 
That bore a lady from a leaguer' d town ; 

And then, I know not how, 



All those sharp fancies, by down-laps- 
ing thought 
Stream'd onward, lost their edges, 
and did creep 
Roll'doneach other, rounded, smooth'd, 
and brought 
Into the gulfs of sleep. 

At last methought that I had wander'd 
far 
In an old wood : fresh- wash' d in 
coolest dew, 
The maiden splendors of the morning 
star 
Shook in the steadfast blue. 

Enormous elmtree-boles did stoop and 
lean 
Upon the dusky brushwood under- 
neath 
Their broad curved branches, fledged 
with clearest green, 
New from its silken sheath. 

The dim red morn had died, her jour- 
ney done, 
And with dead lips smiled at the 
twilight plain, 
Half-fall'n across the threshold of the 
sun, 
Never to rise again. 

There was no motion in the dumb dead 
air, 
Not any song of bird or sound of 
rill; 
Gross darkness of the inner sepulchre 
Is not so deadly still 

As that wide forest. Growths of jas- 
mine turn'd 
Their humid arms festooning tree 
to tree, 
And at the root thro' lush green grasses 
burn'd 
The red anemone. 

I knew the flowers, I knew the leaves, 
I knew 
The tearful glimmer of the languid 
dawn 
On those long, rank, dark wood-walks 
drench'd in dew, 
Leading from lawn to lawn. 



44 



A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. 



The sniell of violets, hidden in the 
green, 
Pour'd back into my empty soul 
and frame 
The times when I remember to have 
been 
Joyful and free from blame. 

And from within me a clear under-tone 
Thrill' d thro' mine ears in that 
unblissful clime, 
" Pass freely thro' : the wood is all 
thine own, 
Until the end of time." 

At length I saw a lady within call, 

Stiller than chisell'd marble, stand- 
ing there ; 

A daughter of the gods, divinely tall, 
And most divinely fair. 

Her loveliness with shame and with 
surprise _ 
Froze my swift speech : she turn- 
ing on my face 
The star-like sorrows of immortal eyes, 
Spoke slowly in her place. 

" I had great beauty : ask thou not my 
name : 
No one can be more wise than 
destiny. 
Many drew swords and died. Where'er 
I came 
I brought calamity." 

" No marvel, sovereign lady : in fair 
field 
Myself for such a face had boldly 
died," 
I answer'd free ; and turning I ap- 
peal'd 
To one that stood beside. 

But she, with sick and scornful looks 
averse, 
To her full height her stately stat- 
ure draws ; 
"My youth," she said, "was blasted 
with a curse : 
This woman was the cause. 

" I was cut off from hope in that sad 
place, 
Which yet to name my spirit 
loathes and fears : 



My father held his hand upon his face ; 
I, blinded with my tears, 

" Still strove to speak : my voice was 
thick with sighs 
As in a dream. Dimly I could 
descry 
The stern black-bearded kings with 
wolfish eyes, 
Waiting to see me die. 

" The high masts flicker' d as they lay 
afloat ; 
The crowds, the temples, waver'd, 
and the shore ; 
The bright death quiver'd at the vic- 
tim's throat ; 
Touch' d ; and I knew no more." 

Whereto the other with a downward 
brow : 
" I would the white cold heavy- 
plunging foam, 
Whirl'd by the wind, had rolPd me 
deep below, 
Then when I left my home." 

Her slow full words sank thro' the 
silence drear, 
As thunder-drops fall on a sleeping 
sea : 
Sudden I heard a voice that cried, 
" Come here, 
That I may look on thee." 

I turning saw, throned on a flowery 
rise, 
One sitting on a crimson scarf un- 
roll'd ; 
A queen, with swarthy cheeks and bold 
black eyes. 
Brow-bound with burning gold. 

She, flashing forth a haughty smile, 
began : 
" I govern' d men by change, and 
so I sway'd 
All moods. 'Tis long since I have 
seen a man. 
Once, like the moon, I made 

"The ever-shifting currents of the 
blood 
According to my humor ebb and 
flow. 



A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. 



45 



I have no men to govern in this wood : 
That makes my only woe. 

" Nay — yet it chafes me that I could 
not bend 
One will ; nor tame and tutor with 
mine eye 
That dull cold-blooded Csesar. Pry- 
thee, friend, 
Where is Mark Antony? 

"The man, my lover, with whom I 
rode sublime 
On Fortune's neck : we sat as God 
by God : 
The Nilus would have risen before his 
time 
And flooded at our nod. 

" We drank the Libyan Sun to sleep, 

and lit 
Lamps which outburn'd Canopus. O 

my life 
In Egypt ! O the dalliance and the wit, 
The flattery and the strife, 

"And the wild kiss, when fresh from 
war's alarms, 

My Hercules, my Roman Antony, 
My mailed Bacchus leapt into my arms, 

Contented there to die ! 

" And there he died : and when I heard 
my name 
Sigh'd forth with life I would not 
brook my fear 
Of the other : with a worm I balk'd 
his fame. 
What else was left? look here ! " 

(With that she tore her robe apart, and 
half 
• The polish'd argent of her breast 
to sight 
Laid bare. Thereto she pointed with 
a laugh, 
Showing the aspic's bite.) 

" I died a Queen. The Roman soldier 
found 
Me lying dead, my crown about 
my brows, 
A name forever ! — lying robed and 
crown'd, 
Worthy a Roman spouse." 



Her warbling voice, a lyre of widest 
range 
Struck by all passion, did fall down 
and glance 
From tone to tone, and glided thro' all 
change 
Of liveliest utterance. 

When she made pause I knew not for 
delight ; 
Because with sudden motion from 
the ground 
She raised her piercing orbs, and filPd 
with light 
The interval of sound. 

Still with their fires Love tipt his keen- 
est darts ; 
As once they drew into two burn- 
ing rings 
All beams of Love, melting the mighty 
hearts 
OF captains and of kings. 

Slowly my sense undazzled. Then I 
heard 
A noise of some one coming thro' 
the lawn, 
And singing clearer than the crested 
bird, 
That claps his wings at dawn. 

" The torrent brooks of hallow'd Israel 
From craggy hollows pouring, late 
and soon, 
Sound all night long, in falling thro' 
the dell, 
Far-heard beneath the moon. 

"The balmy moon of blessed Israel 
Floods all the deep-blue gloom 
with beams divine : 
All night the splinter' d crags that wall 
the dell 
With spires of silver shine." 

As one that museth where broad sun- 
shine laves 
The lawn by some cathedral, thro' 
the door 
Hearing the holy organ rolling waves 
Of sound on roof and floor 

Within, and anthem sung, is charm'd 
and tied 
To where he stands, — so stood I, 
when that flow 



4 6 



A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. 



Of music left the lips of her that died 
To save her father's vow ; 

The daughter of the warrior Gileadite, 
A maiden p u re ; as when she went 
along 
From Mizpeh's tower'd gate with wel- 
come light, 
With timbrel and with song. 

My words leapt forth : "Heaven heads 
the count of crimes 
With that wild oath." She ren- 
der' d answer high : 
" Not so, nor once alone ; a thousand 
times 
I would be born and die. 

" Single I grew, like some green plant, 
whose root 
Creeps to the garden water-pipes 
beneath, 
Feeding the flower ; but ere my flower 
to fruit 
Changed, I was ripe for death. 

" My God, my land, my father, — these 
did move 
Me from my bliss of life, that Na- 
ture gave, 
Lower' d softly with a threefold cord of 
love 
Down to a silent grave. 

" And I went mourning, ' No fair He- 
brew boy 
Shall smile away my maiden blame 
among 
The Hebrew mothers', — emptied of 
all joy, 
Leaving the dance and song, 

" Leaving the olive-gardens far below, 
Leaving the promise of my bridal 
bower, 
The valleys of grape-loaded vines that 
glow 
Beneath the battled tower. 

" The light white cloud swam over us. 
Anon 
We heard the lion roaring from his 
den ; 
We saw the large white stars rise one 
by one, 
Or, from the darken'd glen, 



" Saw God divide the night with fly- 
ing flame, 
And thunder on the everlasting 
hills. 
I heard Him, for He spake, and grief 
became 
A solemn scorn of ills. 

" When the next moon was roll'd into 
the sky, 
Strength came to me that equall'd 
my desire. 
How beautiful a thing it was to die 
For God and for my sire ! 

" It comforts me in this one thought to 
dwell, 
That I subdued me to my father's 
will ; i 
Because the kiss he gave me, ere I fell, 
Sweetens the spirit still. 

" Moreover it is written that my race 
Hew'd Ammon, hip and thigh, 
from Aroer 
On Arnon unto Minneth." Here her 
face 
Glow'd, as I look'd at her. 

She lock'd her lips : she left me where 
I stood : 
" Glory to God," she sang, and 
past afar, 
Thridding the sombre boskage of the 
wood, 
Toward the morning-star. 

Losing her carol I stood pensively, 
As one that from a casement leans 
his head, 
When midnight bells cease ringing 
suddenly, 
And the old year is dead. 

" Alas ! alas ! " a low voice, full of care, 
Murmur'd beside me : " Turn and 
look on me : 
I am that Rosamond, whom men call 
fair, 
If what I was I be. 

"Would I had been some maiden 
coarse and poor ! 
O me, that I should ever see the 
light ! 
Those dragon eyes of anger'd Eleanor 
Do hunt me, day and night." 



MARGARET. 



47 



She ceased in tears, fallen from hope 
and trust : 
To whom the Egyptian : " O, you 
tamely died ! 
You should have clung to Fulvia's 
waist, and thrust 
The dagger thro' her side." 

With that sharp sound the white dawn's 
creeping beams, 
Stol'n to my brain, dissolved the 
mystery 
Of folded sleep. The captain of my 
dreams 
, Ruled in the eastern sky. 

Morn broaden'd on the borders of the 
dark, 
Ere I saw her, who clasp' d in her 
last trance 
Her murder'd father's head, or Joan of 
Arc, 
A light of ancient France ; 

Or her, who knew that Love can van- 
quish Death, 
Who kneeling, with one arm about 
her king, 
Drew forth the poison with her balmy 
breath, 
Sweet as new buds in Spring. 

No memory labors longer from the 
deep 
Gold-mines of thought to lift the 
hidden ore 
That glimpses, moving up, than I from 
sleep 
To gather and tell o'er 

Each little sound and sight. With 
what dull pain 
Compass'd, how eagerly I sought 
to strike 
Into that wondrous track of dreams 
again ! 
But no two dreams are like. 

As when a soul laments, which hath 
been blest, 
Desiring what is mingled with past 
years, 
In yearnings that can never be exprest 
By signs or groans or tears ; 



Because all words, tho' cull'd with 
choicest art, 
Failing to give the bitter of the 
sweet, 
Wither beneath the palate, and the 
heart 
Faints, faded by its heat. 



MARGARET, 
i. 

O sweet pale Margaret, 

O rare pale Margaret, 
What lit your eyes with tearful power, 
Like moonlight on a falling shower ? 
Who lent you, love, your mortal dower 

Of pensive thought and aspect 
pale, 

Your melancholy sweet and frail 
As perfume of the cuckoo-flower ? 
From the westward-winding flood, 
From the evening-lighted wood, 

From all things outward you have 
won 
A tearful grace, as tho' you stood 

Between the rainbow and the sun. 
The very smile before you speak, 
That dimples your transparent cheek, 
Encircles all the heart, and feedeth 
The senses with a still delight 

Of dainty sorrow without sound, 

Like the tender amber round, 
Which the moon about her spreadeth, 
Moving thro' a fleecy night. 

2. 

You love, remaining peacefully, 

To hear the murmur of the strife, 
But enter not the toil of life. 

Your spirit is the calmed sea, 

Laid by the tumult of the fight. 

You are the evening star, alway 

Remaining betwixt dark and bright: 

Lull'd echoes of laborious day 

Come to you, gleams of mellow 

light 
Float by you on the verge of night. 

What can it matter, Margaret, 

What songs below the waning stars 

The lion-heart, Plantagenet, 

Sang looking thro' his prison bars ? 
Exquisite Margaret, who can tell 



48 THE BLACKBIRD. — THE DEA TH OF THE OLD YEAR. 



The last wild thought of Chatelet, 
Just ere the fallen axe did part 
The burning brain from the true 

heart, 
Even in her sight he loved so well ? 



A fairy shield your Genius made 

And gave you on your natal day. 
Your sorrow, only sorrow's shade, 

Keeps real sorrow far away. 
You move not in such solitudes, 

You are not less divine, 
But more human in your moods, 

Than your twin-sister, Adeline. 
Your hair is darker, and your eyes 

Touch' d with a somewhat darker 
hue, 

And less aerially blue, 

But ever trembling thro' the dew 
Of dainty-woful sympathies. 



O sweet pale Margaret, 
O rare pale Margaret, 
Come down, come down, and hear me 

speak : 
Tie up the ringlets on your cheek : 

The sun is just about to set. 
The arching limes are tall and shady, 
And faint, rainy lights are seen, 
Moving in the leavy beech. 
Rise from the feast of sorrow, lady, 
Where all day long you sit between 
Joy and woe, and whisper-each. 
Or only look across the lawn, 

Look out below youri)ower-eaves, 
Look down, and let your blue eyes 
dawn 
Upon me thro' the jasmine-leaves. 



THE BLACKBIRD. 

O Blackbird ! sing me something 
well : 
While all the neighbors shoot thee 

round, 
I keep smooth plats of fruitful 
ground, 
Where thou may'st warble, eat, and 
dwell. 



The espaliers and the standards all 
Are thine ; the range of lawn and 

park : 
The unnetted black-hearts ripen 
dark, 
All thine, against the garden wall. 

Yet, tho' I spared thee all the spring, 
Thy sole delight is, sitting still, 
With that gold dagger of thy bill 

To fret the summer jenneting. 

A golden bill ! the silver tongue, 
Cold February loved, is dry : 
Plenty corrupts the melody 

That made thee famous once, when 
young : 

And in the sultry garden-squares, 
Now thy flute-notes are changed to 

coarse, 
I hear thee not at all, or hoarse 

As when a hawker hawks his wares. 

Take warning ! he that will not sing 
While yon sun prospers in the blue, 
Shall sing for want, ere leaves are 
new, 

Caught in the frozen palms of Spring. 



THE DEATH OF THE OLD 
YEAR. 

Full knee-deep lies the winter snow, 
And the winter winds are wearily sigh- 
ing : 
Toll ye the church-bell sad and slow, 
And tread softly and speak low, 
For the old year lies a-dying. 
Old year, you must not die ; 
You came to us so readily, 
You lived with us so steadily, 
Old year, you shall not die. 

He lieth still : he doth not move : 

He will not see the dawn of day. 

He hath no other life above. 

He gave me a friend, and a true true- 
love, 

And the New-year will take 'em away. 
Old year, you must not go ; 
So long as you have been with us, 
Such joy as you have seen with us, 
Old year, you shall not go. 



TO J. S. 



49 



He froth'd his bumpers to the brim ; 

A jollier year we shall not see. 

But tho' his eyes are waxing dim, 

And tho' his foes speak ill of him, 

He was a friend to me. 

Old year, you shall not die ; 
We did so laugh and cry with you, 
I 've half a mind to die with you, 
Old year, if you must die. 

He was full of joke and jest, 
■ But all his merry quips are o'er. 
To see him die, across the waste 
His son and heir doth ride post-haste, 
But he '11 be dead before. 
Every one for his own. 
. The night is starry and cold, my 

friend, 
And the New-year blithe and 

bold, my friend, 
Comes up to take his own. 

How hard he breathes ! over the snow 
I heard just now the crowing cock. 
The shadows flicker to and fro : 
The cricket chirps : the light burns 

low : 
'T is nearly twelve o'clock. 

Shake hands, before you die. 

Old year, we '11 dearly rue for you : 

What is it we can do for you ? 

Speak out before you die. 

His face is growing sharp and thin. 
Alack ! our friend is gone, 
Close up his eyes : tie up his chin : 
Step from the corpse, and let him in 
That standeth there alone, 

And waiteth at the door. 

There 's a new foot on the floor, 
my friend, 

And a new face at the door, my 
fifjend, 

A new face at the door. 



TO J. S. 

The wind, that beats the mountain, 
blows 
More softly round the open wold, 
And gently comes the world to those 
That are cast in gentle mould. 
4 



And me this knowledge bolder made, 
Or else I had not dared to flow 

In these words toward you, and invade 
Even with a verse your holy woe. 

'T is strange that those we lean on most, 
Those in whose laps our limbs are 
nursed, 

Fall into shadow, soonest lost : 

Those we love first are taken first. 

God gives us love. Something to love 
He lends us ; but, when love is 
grown 

To ripeness, that on which it throve 
Falls off, and love is left alone. 

This is the curse of time. Alas ! 

In grief I am not all unlearn 'd ; 
Once thro' mine own doors Death did 
pass ; 
One went, who never hath re- 
turn'd. 

He will not smile — not speak to me 
Once more. Two years his chair 
is seen 

Empty before us. That was he 

Without whose life I had not been. 

Your loss is rarer ; for this star 

Rose with you thro' a little arc 

Of heaven, nor having wander'd far 
Shot on the sudden into dark. 

I knew your brother : his mute dust 
I honor and his living worth : 

A man more pure and bold and just 
Was never born into the earth. 

I have not look'd upon you nigh, 

Since that dear soul hath fall'n 
asleep. 

Great Nature is more wise than I : 
I will not tell you not to weep. 

And tho' mine own eyes fill with dew, 
Drawn from the spirit thro' the 
brain, 
I will not even preach to you, 

" Weep, weeping dulls the inward 
pain." 

Let Grief be her own mistress still. 
She loveth her own anguish deep 



5° 



YOU ASK ME, WHY. — OF OLD SA T FREEDOM. 



More than much pleasure. Let her 
will 
Be done — to weep or not to weep. 

I will not say " God's ordinance 

Of Death is blown in every wind" ; 

For that is not a common chance 
That takes away a noble mind. 

His memory long will live alone 

In all our hearts, as mournful 
light 
That broods above the fallen sun, 

And dwells in heaven half the 
night. 

Vain solace ! Memory standing near 
Cast down her eyes, and * in her 
throat 

Her voice seem'd distant, and a tear 
Dropt on the letters as I wrote. 

I wrote I know not what. In truth, 
How should I soothe you any- 
way, 

Who miss the brother of your youth ? 
Yet something I did wish to say : 

For he too was a friend to me : 

Both are my friends, and my true 
breast 

Bleedeth for both ; yet it may be 
That only silence suiteth best. 

Words weaker than your grief would 
make 
Grief more. 'T were better I 
should cease ; 
Although myself could almost take 
The place of him that sleeps in 
peace. 

Sleep sweetly, tender heart, in peace : 
Sleep, holy spirit, blessed soul, 

While the stars burn, the moons in- 
crease, 
And the great ages onward roll. 

Sleep till the end, true soul and sweet. 
Nothing comes to thee new or 
strange. 
Sleep full of rest from head to feet ; 
Lie still, dry dust, secure of 
change. 



You ask me, why, tho' ill at ease, 
Within this region I subsist, 
Whose spirits falter in the mist, 

And languish for the purple seas ? 

It is the land that freemen till, 

That sober-suited Freedom chose, 
The land, where girt with friends 
or foes 

A man may speak the thing he will ; 

A land of settled government, 

A land of just and old renown, 
Where Freedom broadens slowly 
down 

From precedent to precedent : 

Where faction seldom gathers head, 
But by degrees to fulness wrought, 
The strength of some diffusive 
thought 
Hath time and space to work and 
spread. 

Should banded unions persecute 
Opinion, and induce a time 
When single thought is civil crime, 

And individual freedom mute ; 

Tho' Power should make from land to 
land 
The name of Britain trebly great - 
Tho' every channel of the State 
Should almost choke with golden 
sand — 

Yet waft me from the harbor-mouth, 
Wild wind ! I seek a warmer sky, 
And I will see before I die 

The palms and temples of the South. 



Of old sat Freedom on the heights, . 

The thunders breaking at her feet : i 
Above her shook the starry lights : 

She heard the torrents meet. 

There in her place she did rejoice, 

Self-gather'd in her prophet-mind, I 

But fragments of her mighty voice 
Came rolling on the wind. 



LOVE THOU THY LAND. 



5i 



Then stept she down thro' town and 
field 

To mingle with the human race, 
And part by part to men reveal' d 

The fulness of her face — 
Grave mother of majestic works, 

From her isle-altar gazing down, 
Who, God-like, grasps the triple forks, 

And, King-like, wears the crown : 
Her open eyes desire the truth. 

The wisdom of a thousand years 
Is in them. May perpetual youth 

Keep dry their light from tears ; 
That her fair form may stand and shine, 

Make bright our days and light our 
dreams, 
Turning to scorn with lips divine 

The falsehood of extremes ! 



Love thou thy land, with love far- 
brought 
From out the storied Past, and used 
Within the Present, but transfused 

Thro' future time by power of thought. 

True love turn'd round on fixed poles, 
Love, that endures not sordid ends, 
For English natures, freemen, friends, 

Thy brothers and immortal souls. 

But pamper not a hasty time, 
Nor feed with crude imaginings 
The herd, wild hearts and feeble 
wings, 

That every sophister can lime. 

Deliver not the tasks of might 
To weakness, neither hide the ray 
From those, not blind, who wait for 
day, 

Tho' sitting girt with doubtful light. 

Make knowledge circle with the winds ; 
But let her herald, Reverence, fly 
Before her to whatever sky 

Bear seed of men and growth of minds. 

Watch what main-currents draw the 
years ; 
Cut Prejudice against the grain : 
But gentle words are always gain : 

Regard the weakness of thy peers : 



Nor toil for title, place, or touch, 
Of pension, neither count on praise : 
It grows to guerdon after-days : 

Nor deal in watch-words overmuch ; 

Not clinging to some ancient saw ; 

Not master'd by some modern term ; 

Not swift nor slow to change, but 
firm : 
And in its season bring the law ; 

That from Discussion's lip may fall 
With Life, that, working strongly, 

binds — 
Set in all lights by many minds, 

To close the interests of all. 

For Nature also, cold and warm, 
And moist and dry, devising long, 
Thro' many agents making strong, 

Matures the individual form. 

Meet is it changes should control 
Our being, lest we rust in ease. 
We all are changed by still degrees, 

All but the basis of the soul. 

So let the change which comes be free 
To ingroove itself with that, which 

flies, 
And work, a joint of state, that plies 

Its office, moved with sympathy. 

A saying, hard to shape in act ; 
For all the past of Time reveals 
A bridal dawn of thunder-peals, 

Wherever Thought hath wedded Fact. 

Ev'n now we hear with inward strife 
A motion toiling in the gloom — 
The Spirit of the years to come 

Yearning to mix himself with Life. 

A slow-develop'd strength awaits 
Completion in a painful school ; 
Phantoms of other forms of rule, 

New Majesties of mighty States — 

The warders of the growing hour, 
But vague in vapor, hard to mark ; 
And round them sea and air are dark 

With great contrivances of Power. 

Of many changes, aptly join'd, 
Is bodied forth the second whole. 
Regard gradation, lest the soul 

Of Discord race the rising wind ; 



52 



THE GOOSE. 



A wind to puff your idol-fires, 

And heap their ashes on the head ; 
To shame the boast so often made, 

That we are wiser than our sires. 

O yet, if Nature's evil star 

Drive men in manhood, as in youth, 
To follow flying steps of Truth 

Across the brazen bridge of war — 

If New and Old, disastrous feud, 
Must ever shock, like armed foes, 
And this be true, till Time shall 
close, 

That Principles are rain'd in blood ; 

Not yet the wise of heart would cease 
To hold his hope thro' shame and 

guilt, 
But with his hand against the hilt, 
Would pace the troubled land, like 

Peace ; 
Not less, tho' dogs of Faction bay, 
Would serve his kind in deed and 

word, 
Certain, if knowledge bring the 
sword, 
That knowledge takes the sword 

away — 
Would love the gleams of good that 
broke 
From either side, nor veil his eyes : 
And if some dreadful need should 
rise 
Would strike, and firmly, and one 

stroke : 
To-morrow yet would reap to-day, 
As we bear blossom of the dead ; 
Earn well the thrifty months, nor 
wed 
Raw Haste, half-sister to Delay. 



THE GOOSE. 

I knew an old wife lean and poor, 

Her rags scarce held together ; 
There strode a stranger to the door, 

And it was windy weather. 
He held a goose upon his arm, 

He utter'd rhyme and reason, 
" Here, take the goose, and keep you 
warm, 

It is a stormy season." 



She caught the white goose by the leg. 

A goose — 't was no great matter. 
The goose let fall a golden egg 

With cackle and with claiter. 
She dropt the goose, and caught the pelf, 

And ran to tell her neighbors ; 
And bless'd herself, and cursed herself, 

And rested from her labors. 

And feeding high, and living soft, 

Grew plump and able-bodied ; 
Until the grave churchwarden doff 'd, 

The parson smirk' d and nodded. 
So sitting, served by man and maid, 

She felt her heart grow prouder : 
But ah ! the more the white goose laid 

It clack'd and cackled louder. 
It clutter'd here, it chuckled there ; 

It stirr'd the old wife's mettle: 
She shifted in her elbow-chair, 

And hurl'd the pan and kettle. 
" A quinsy choke thy cursed note ! " 

Then wax'd her anger stronger. 
" Go, take the goose, and wring her 
throat, 

I will not bear it longer." 

Then yelp'd the cur, and yawl'd the cat; 

Ran Gaffer, stumbled Gammer. 
The goose flew this way and flew that, 

And fill'd the house with clamor. 
As head and heels upon the floor 

They flounder'd all together, 
There strode a stranger to the door, 

And it was windy weather : 
He took the goose upon his arm, 

He utter'd words of scorning ; 
" So keep you cold, or keep you warm, 

It is a stormy morning." 

The wild wind rang from park and 
plain, 

And round the attics rumbled, 
Till all the tables danced again, 

And half the chimneys tumbled, 
The glass blew in, the fire blew out, 

The blast was hard and harder. 
Her cap blew off, her gown blew up, 

And a whirlwind clear'd the larder ; 
And while on all sides breaking loose 

Her household fled the danger, 
Quoth she, u The Devil take the goose, 

And God forget the stranger 1 " 



THE EPIC. 



53 



ENGLISH IDYLS AND OTHER POEMS. 



(published 1842.) 



THE EPIC. 

At Francis Allen's on the Christmas- 
eve, — 
The game of forfeits done — the girls 

all kiss'd 
Beneath the sacred bush and past 

away — 
The parson Holmes, the poet Everard 

Hall, 
The host, and I sat round the wassail- 
bowl, 
Then half-way ebb'd : and there we held 

a talk, 
How all the old honor had from 

Christmas gone, 
Or gone, or dwindled down to some odd 

games 
In some odd nooks like this ; till I, tired 

out 
With cutting eights that day upon the 

pond, 
Where, three times slipping from the 

outer edge, 
I bump'd the ice into three several 

stars, 
Fell in a doze ; and half-awake I heard 
The parson taking wide and wider 

sweeps, 
Now harping on the church-commis- 
sioners, 
Now hawking at Geology and schism ; 
Until I woke, and found him settled 

down 
Upon the gfneral decay of faith 
Right thro' the world, " at home was 

little left, 
And none abroad : there was no anchor, 

none, 
To hold by." Francis, laughing, clapt 

his hand 
On Everard's shoulder, with " I hold 

by him." 
"And I," quoth Everard, "by the 

wassail-bowl." 



" Why yes," I said, " we knew your gift 

that way 
At college ; but another which you had 
I mean of verse (for so we held it then,) 
What came of that ? " " You know," 

said Frank, " he burnt 
Hid epic, his King Arthur, some twelve 

books " — 
And then to me demanding why ? " O, 

sir, 
He thought that nothing new was said, 

or else 
Something so said 't was nothing — that 

a truth 
Looks freshest in the fashion of the 

day : 
God knows : he has a mint of reasons : 

ask. 
It pleased me well enough." "Nay, 

nay," said Hall, 
" Why take the style of those heroic 

times ? 
For nature brings not back the Masto- 
don, 
Nor we those times ; and why should 

any man 
Remodel models? these twelve books 

of mine 
Were faint Homeric echoes, nothing- 
worth, 
Mere chaff and draff, much better 

burnt." "But I;" 
Said Francis, "pick'd the eleventh 

from this hearth, 
And have it : keep a thing, its use will 

come. 
I hoard it as a sugar-plum for Holmes." 
He laugh'd, and I, though sleepy, like 

a horse 
That hears the corn-bin open, prick'd 

my ears ; 
For I remember'd Everard's college 

fame 
When we were Freshmen ; then at mp 

request 



54 



MORTE D" ARTHUR. 



He brought it ; and the poet little urged, 

But with some prelude of disparage- 
ment, 

Read, mouthing out his hollow oes and 
aes, 

Deep-chested music, and to this result. 



MORTE D'ARTHUR. 

So all day long the noise of battle roll'd 
Among the mountains by the winter 

sea ; 
Until King Arthur's table, man by man, 
Had fall'n in Lyonness about their 

Lord, 
King Arthur : then, because his wound 

was deep, 
The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him, 
Sir Bedivere, the last of all his knights, 
. And bore him to a chapel nigh the field, 
A broken chancel with a broken cross, 
That stood on a dark strait of barren 

land. 
On one side lay the Ocean, and on one 
Lay a great water, and the moon was 

full. 
Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedi- 
vere : 
" The sequel of to-day unsolders all 
The goodliest fellowship of famous 

knights 
Whereof this world holds record. Such 

a sleep 
They sleep — the men I loved. I think 

that we 
Shall never more, at any future time, 
Delight our souls with talk of knightly 

deeds, 
Walking about the gardens and the 

halls 
Of Camelot, as in the days that were. 
I perish by this people which I made, — 
Tho' Merlin sware that I should come 

again 
To rule once more — but let what will 

be, be, 
I am so deeply smitten thro' the helm 
That without help 1 cannot last till morn. 
Thou therefore take my brand Excali- 

bur, 
Which was my pride : for thou remem- 

berest how 



In those old days, one summer noon, 
an arm 

Rose up from out the bosom of the lake, 

Clothed in white samite, mystic, won- 
derful, 

Holding the sword — and how I row'd 
across 

And took it, and have worn it, like a 
king: 

And, wheresoever I am sung or told 

In aftertime, this also shall be known : 

But now delay not : take Excalibur, 

And fling him far into the middle mere : 

Watch what thou seest, and lightly bring 
me word." 
To him replied the bold Sir Bedivere: 

" It is not meet, Sir King, to leave thee 
thus, 

Aidless, alone, and smitten thro' the 
helm. 

A little thing may harm a wounded man. 

Yet I thy hest will all perform at full, 

Watch what I see, and lightly bring 
thee word." 
So saying, from the ruin'd shrine he 
stept 

And in the moon athwart the place of 
tombs, 

Where lay the mighty bones of ancient 
men, 

Old knights, and over them the sea- 
wind sang 

Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, 
stepping down 

By zig-zag paths, and juts of pointed 
rock, 

Came on the shining levels of the lake. 
There drew he forth the brand Ex- 
calibur, 

And o'er him, drawing it, the winter 
moon, 

Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, 
ran forth 

And sparkled keen with frost against 
the hilt : 

For all the haft twinkled with diamond 
studs, 

Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth- 
work 

Of subtlest jewellery. He gazed so long 

That both his eyes were dazzled, as he 
stood, 

This way and that dividing the swift 
mind, 



MORTE D' ARTHUR. 



55 



In act to throw : but at the last it seem'd 
Better to leave Excalibur conceal'd 
There in the many-knotted waterflags, 
That whistled stiff and dry about the 

marge. 
So strode he back slow to the wounded 

king. 
Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedi- 

vere : 
" Hast thou perform'd my mission 

which I gave ? 
What is it thou hast seen ? or what hast 

heard ? " 
And answer made the bold Sir Bedi- 

vere : 
" I heard the ripple washing in the 

reeds, 
And the wild water lapping on the 

crag." 
To whom replied King Arthur, faint 

and pale : 
" Thou hast betray'd thy nature and thy 

name, 
Not rendering true answer, as beseem'd 
Thy fealty, nor like a noble knight : 
For surer sign had follow'd, either 

hand, 
Or voice, or else a motion of the mere. 
This is a shameful thing for men to lie. 
Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go 

again 
As thou art lief and dear, and do the 

thing 
I bade thee, watch, and lightly bring me 

word." 
Then went Sir Bedivere the second 

time 
Across the ridge, and paced beside the 

mere, 
Counting the dewy pebbles, fix'd in 

thought ; 
But when he saw the wonder of the hilt, 
How curiously and strangely chased, he 

smote 
His palms together, and he cried aloud. 
"And if indeed I cast the brand away, 
Surely a precious thing, one worthy 

note, 
Should thus be lost forever from the 

earth, 
Which might have pleased the eyes of 

many men. 
What good should follow this, if this 

were done ? 



What harm, undone? deep harm to 

disobey, 
Seeing obedience is the bond of rule. 
Were it well to obey then, if a king de- 
mand 
An act unprofitable, against himself? 
The King is sick, and knows not what 

he does. 
What record, or what relic of my lord 
Should be to aftertime, but empty 

breath 
And rumors of a doubt ? but were this 

kept, 
Stored in some treasure-house of 

mighty kings, 
Some one might show it at a joust of 

arms, 
Saying, ' King Arthur's sword, Excali- 
bur, 
Wrought by the lonely maiden of the 

Lake. 
Nine years she wrought it, sitting in 

the deeps 
Upon the hidden bases of the hills.' 
So might some old man speak in the 

aftertime 
To all the people, winning reverence. 
But now much honor and much fame 

were lost." 
So spake he, clouded with his own 

conceit, 
And hid Excalibur the second time, 
And so strode back slow to the wounded 

King. 
Then spoke King Arthur, breathing 

heavily : 
"What is it thou hast seen? or what 

hast heard? " 
And answer made the bold Sir Bedi- 
vere : 
" I heard the water lapping on the crag, 
And the long ripple washing in the 

reeds." 
To whom replied King Arthur, much 

in wrath : 
" Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue, 
Unkiiightly, traitor-hearted ! Woe is 

me ! 
Authority forgets a dying king, 
Laid widow'd of the power in his eye 
That bow'd the will. I see thee what 

thou art, 
For thou, the latest-left of all my 

knights, 



56 



MORTE & ARTHUR. 



In whom should meet the offices of all, 
Thou wouldst betray me for the pre- 
cious hilt ; 
Either from lust of gold, or like a girl 
Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes. 
Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice, 
And the third time may prosper, get 

thee hence : 
But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur, 
I will arise and slay thee with my 

hands." 
Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and 

ran, 
Am^ leaping down the ridges lightly, 

in plunged 
Aral n g the bulrush-beds, and clutch'd 

the sword, 
Al^u strongly wheel'd and threw it. 

The great brand 
Made lightnings in the splendor of the 

moon, 
And flashing round and round, and 

whirl'cl in an arch, 
Shot like a streamer of the northern 

morn, 
Seen where the moving isles of winter 

shock 
By night, with noises of the northern 

sea. 
So flash'd and fell the brand Excalibur : 
But ere he dipt the surface, rose an arm 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, won- 
derful, 
And caught him by the hilt, and bran- 

dish'd him 
Three times, and drew him under in 

the mere. 
And lightly went the other to the King. 
Then spoke King Arthur, drawing 

thicker breath : 
" Now see I by thine eyes that this is 

done. 
Speak out : what is it thou hast heard, 

or seen ? " 
And answer made the bold Sir Bedi- 
vere : 
" Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest 

the gems 
Should blind my purpose, for I never 

saw, 
Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I 

die, 
Not tho' I live three lives of mortal 

men, 



So great a miracle as yonder hilt. 
Then with both hands I flung him, 

wheeling him ; 
But when I look'd again, behold an 

arm, 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, won- 
derful, 
That caught him by the hilt, and brand- 

ish'd him 
Three times, and drew him under in 

the mere." 
And answer made King Arthur, 

breathing hard : 
" My end draws nigh ; 't is time that I 

were gone. 
Make broad thy shoulders to receive 

my weight, 
And bear me to the margin ; yet I fear 
My wound hath taken cold, and I shall 

die." 
So saying, from the pavement he half 

rose, 
Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm, 
And looking wistfully with wide blue 

eyes 
As in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere 
Remorsefully regarded thro' his tears, 
And would have spoken, but he found 

not words, 
Then took with care, and kneeling on 

one knee, 
O'er both his shoulders drew the lan- 
guid hands, 
And rising bore him thro' the place of 

tombs. 
But, as he walk'd, King Arthur 

panted hard, 
Like one that feels a nightmare on his 

bed 
When all the house is mute. So sigh'd 

the King, 
Muttering and murmuring at his ear 

" Quick, quick ! 
I fear it is too late, and I shall die." 
But the other swiftly strode from ridge 

to ridge, 
Clothed with his breath, and looking, 

as he walk'd, 
Larger than human on the frozen hills. 
He heard the deep behind him, and a 

cry 
Before. His own thought drove him 

like a goad. 
Dry clash'd his harness in the icy caves 



MORTE D' ARTHUR. 



57 



And barren chasms, and all to left and 

right 
The bare black cliff clang'd round him, 

as he based 
His feet on juts of slippery crag that 

rang 
Sharp-smitten with the dint of armed 

heels — 
And on a sudden, lo ! the level lake, 
And the long glories of the winter 

moon. 
Then saw they how there hove a 

dusky barge, 
Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to 

stern, 
Beneath them ; and descending they 

were ware 
That all the decks were dense with 

stately forms 
Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a 

dream — by these 
Three Queens with crowns of gold — 

and from them rose 
A cry that shiver'd to the tingling stars, 
And, as it were one voice, an agony 
Oflamentation, like a wind, that shrills 
All night in a waste land, where no one 

comes, 
Or hath come, since the making of the 

world. 
Then murmur'd Arthur, " Place me 

in the barge," 
And to the barge they came. There 

those three Queens 
Put forth their hands, and took the 

King, and wept. 
But she, that rose the tallest of them all 
And fairest, laid his head upon her lap, 
And loosed the shatter'd casque, and 

chafed his hands, 
And call'd him by his name, complain- 
ing loud, 
And dropping bitter tears against his 

brow 
Striped with dark blood : for all his 

face was white 
And colorless, and like the wither'd 

moon 
Smote by the fresh beam of the spring- 
ing east ; 
And all his greaves and cuisses dash'd 

with drops 
Of onset ; and the light and lustrous 

curls — 



That made his forehead like a rising 

sun 
High from the dais-throne — were 

parch'd with dust ; 
Or, clotted into points and hanging 

loose, 
Mix'd with the knightly growth that 

fringed his lips. 
So like a shatter'd column lay the 

King; 
Not like that Arthur who, with lance 

in rest, 
From spur to plume a star of tourna- 
ment, 
Shot thro' the lists at Camelot, and 

charged 
Before the eyes of ladies and of 

kings. 
Then loudly cried the bold Sir Be- 

divere, 
" Ah ! my Lord Arthur, whither shall 

I go? 
Where shall I hide my forehead and 

my eyes ? 
For now I see the true old times are 

dead, 
When every morning brought a noble 

chance, 
And every chance brought out a noble 

knight. 
Such times have been not since the 

light hath led 
The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh. 
But now the whole round table is 

dissolved 
Which was an image of the mighty 

world ; 
And I, the last, go forth companionless, 
And the days darken round me, and 

the years, 
Among new men, strange faces, other 

minds." 
And slowly answer'd Arthur from 

the barge : 
" The old order changeth, yielding 

place to new, 
And God fulfils himself in many ways, 
Lest one good custom should corrupt 

the world. 
Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me ? 
I have lived my life, and that which I 

have done 
May He within himself make pure ! 

but thou, 



S3 



MORTE D' ARTHUR. 



If thou shouldst never see my face 
again, 

Pray for my soul. More things are 
wrought by prayer 

Than this world dreams of. Where- 
fore, let thy voice 

Rise like a fountain for me night and 
day. 

For what are men better than sheep or 
goats 

That nourish a blind life within the 
brain, 

If, knowing God, they lift not hands 
of prayer 

Both for themselves and those who call 
them friend ? 

For so the whole round earth is every 
way 

Bound by gold chains about the feet of 
God. 

But now farewell. I am going a long 
way 

With these thouseest — ifindeed I go — 

(For all my mind is clouded with a 
doubt) 

To the island- valley of Avilion ; 

Where falls not hail, or rain, or any 
snow, 

Nor ever wind blows loudly ; but it lies 

Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with or- 
chard-lawns 

And bowery hollows crown'd with sum- 
mer sea, 

Where I will heal me of my grievous 
wound." 
So said he, and the barge with oar 
and sail 

Moved from the brink, like some full- 
breasted swan — 

That, fluting a wild carol ere her death, 

Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes 
the flood 

With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir 
Bedivere 

Revolving many memories, till the hull 

Look'd one black dot against the verge 
of dawn, 

And on the mere the wailing died away. 



Here ended Hall, and our last light, 
that long 
Had wink'd and threaten'd darkness, 
flared and fell : 



At which the Parson, sent to sleep with 

sound, 
And waked with silence, grunted 

" Good ! " but we 
Sat rapt : it was the tone with which 

he read — 
Perhaps some modern touches here 

and there 
Redeem'd it from the charge of noth- 
ingness — 
Or else we loved the man, and prized 

his work ; . 
I know not : but we sitting, as I said, 
The cock crew loud ; as at that time 

of year 
The lusty bird takes every hour for 

dawn : 
Then Francis, muttering, like a man 

ill-used, 
" There now — that 's nothing ! " drew 

a little back, # 
And drove his heel into the smoulder'd 

log, 
That sent a blast of sparkles up the 

flue : 
And so to bed ; where yet in sleep I 

seem'd 
To sail with Arthur under looming 

shores, 
Point after point ; till on to dawn, 

when dreams 
Begin to feel the truth and stir of day, 
To me, methought, who waited with a 

crowd, 
There came a bark that, blowing for- 
ward, bore 
King Arthur, like a modern gentleman 
Of stateliest port ; and all the people 

cried, 
" Arthur is come again : he cannot 

die." 
Then those that stood upon the hills 

behind 
Repeated — "Come again, and thrice 

as fair" ; 
'And, further inland, voices echoed — 

" Come 
With all good things, and war shall be 

no more." 
At this a hundred bells began to peal, 
That with the sound I woke, and 

heard indeed 
The clear church-bells ring in the 

Christmas morn. 



THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER. 



59 



THE GARDENER'S DAUGH- 
TER; OR, THE PICTURES. 

This morning is the morning of the 

day,. 
When I and Eustace from the city 

went 
To see the Gardener's Daughter ; I 

and he, 
Brothers in Art ; a friendship so com- 
plete 
Portion'd in halves between us, that 

we grew 
The fable of the city where we dwelt. 
My Eustace might have sat for Her- 
cules ; 
So muscular he spread, so broad of 

breast. 
He, by some law that holds in love, 

and draws 
The greater to the lesser, long desired 
A certain miracle of symmetry, 
A miniature of loveliness, all grace 
Summ'd up and closed in little ; — Ju- 
liet, she 
So light of foot, so light of spirit — oh, 

she 
To me myself, for some three careless 

moons, 
The summer pilot of an empty heart 
Unto the shores of nothing ! Know 

you not 
Such touches are but embassies of love, 
To tamper with the feelings, ere he 

found 
Empire for life ? but Eustace painted 

her, 
And said to me, she sitting with us 

then, 
" When will you paint like this? " and 

I replied, 
(My words were half in earnest, half 

in jest,) 
" 'T is not your work, but Love's. 

Love, unperceived, 
A more ideal Artist he than all, 
Came, drew your pencil from you, 

made those eyes 
Darker than darkest pansies, and that 

hair 
More black than ashbuds in the front 

of March." 
And Juliet answer'd laughing, " Go 

and see 



The Gardener's daughter : trust me, 

after that, 
You scarce can fail to match his mas- 
terpiece." 
And up we rose, and on the spur we 

went. 
Not wholly in the busy world, nor 

quite 
Beyond it, blooms the garden that I 

love. 
News from the humming city comes 

to it 
In sound of funeral or of marriage bells ; 
And, sitting muffled in dark leaves, 

you hear 
The windy clanging of the minster 

clock ; 
Although between it and the garden lies 
A league of grass, wash'd by a slow 

broad stream. 
That, stirr'd with languid pulses of the 

oar, 
Waves all its lazy lilies, and creeps on, 
Barge-laden, to three arches of a bridge 
Crown'd with the minster towers. 

The fields between 
Are dewy-fresh, browsed by deep- 

udder'd kine, 
And all about the large lime feathers 

low, 
The lime a summer home of murmur- 
ous wings. 
In that still place she, hoarded in 

herself, 
Grew, seldom seen : not less among 

us lived 
Her fame from lip to lip. Who had 

not heard 
Of Rose, the Gardener's daughter? 

Where was he, 
So blunt in memory, so old at heart, 
At such a distance from his youth in 

grief, 
That, having seen, forgot ? The com- 
mon mouth, 
So gross to express delight, in praise 

of her 
Grew oratory. Such a lord is Love, 
And Beauty such a mistres^Bft the 

world. 
And if I said that Fancy, led by Love, 
Would play with flying forms and 

images, 
Yet this is also true, that, long before 



6o 



THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER. 



I look'd upon her, when I heard her 

name 
My heart was like a prophet to my 

heart, 
And told me I should love. A crowd 

of hopes, 
That sought to sow themselves like 

winged seeds, 
Born out of everything I heard and saw, 
Flutter'd about my senses and my soul ; 
And vague desires, like fitful blasts of 

balm 
To one that travels quickly, made the 

air 
Of Life delicious, and all kinds of 

thought, 
That verged upon them, sweeter than 

the dream 
Dream'd by a happy man, when the 

dark East, 
Unseen, is brightening to his bridal 
morn. 
And sure this orbit of the memory 
folds 
Forever in itself the day we went 
To see her. All the land in flowery 

squares, 
Beneath a broad and equal-blowing 

wind, 
Smelt of the coming summer, as one 

large cloud 
Drew downward : but all else of Heav- 
en was pure 
Up to the Sun, and May from verge 

to verge, 
And May with me from head to heel. 

And now, 
As tho"t were yesterday, as tho' it were 
The hour just flown, that morn with 

all its sound, 
(For those old Mays had thrice the 

life of these,) 
Rings in mine ears. The steer forgot 

to graze, 
And, where the hedge-row cuts the 

pathway, stood, 
Leaning his horns into the neighbor 

field, 
An^Hpking to his fellows. From the 

^^oods 
Came voices of the well-contented 

doves. 
The lark could scarce get out his notes 
for joy, 



But shook his song together as he 

near'd 
His happy home, the ground. To left 

and right, 
The cuckoo told his name to all the 

hills ; 
The mellow ouzel fluted in the elm ; 
The redcap whistled ; and the night- 
ingale 
Sang loud, as tho' he were the bird of 

day. 
And Eustace turn'd, and smiling 

said to me, 
"Hear how the bushes echo ! by my 

life, 
These birds have joyful thoughts. 

Think you they sing 
Like poets, from the vanity of song ? 
Or have they any sense of why they 

sing? 
And would they praise the heavens 

for what they have ? " 
And I made answer, " Were there 

nothing else 
For which to praise the heavens but 

only love, 
That only love were cause enough for 

praise." 
Lightly he laugh'd, as one that read 

my thought, 
And on we went ; but ere an hour had j 

pass'd, 
We reach'd a meadow slanting to the 

North ; 
Down which a well-worn pathway 

courted us 
To one green wicket in a privet hedge ; 
This, yielding, gave into a grassy walk 
Thro' crowded lilac-ambush trimly 

pruned ; 
And one warm gust, full-fed with per- 
fume, blew 
Beyond us, as we enter'd in the cool. 
The garden stretches southward. In 

the midst 
A cedar spread his dark-green layers 

of shade. 

The garden-glasses shone, and mo- 
mently 
The twinkling laurel scatter'd silver 

lights. 
" Eustace," I said, " This wonder 

keeps the house." 
He nodded, but a moment afterwards 



THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER. 



61 



He cried, " Look ! look ! " Before he 
ceased I turn'd, 

And, ere a star can wink, beheld her 
there. 
For up ,the porch there grew an 
Eastern rose, 

That, flowering high, the last night's 
gale had caught, 

And blown across the walk. One arm 
aloft — 

Gown'd in pure white, that fitted to 
the shape — 

Holding the bush, to fix it back, she 
stood. 

A single stream of all her soft brown 
hair 

Pour'd on one side : the shadow of the 
flowers 

Stole all the golden gloss, and, waver- 
ing 

Lovingly lower, trembled on her 
waist — 

Ah, happy shade — and still went wa- 
vering down, 

But, ere it touch' d a foot, that might 
have danced 

The greensward into greener circles, 
dipt, 

And mix'd with shadows of the com- 
mon ground ! 

But the full day dwelt on her brows, 
and sunn'd 

Her violet eyes, and all her Hebe- 
bloom, 

And doubled his own warmth against 
her lips, 

And on the bounteous wave of such a 
breast 

As never pencil drew. Half light, 
half shade, 

She stood, a sight to make an old man 
young. 
So rapt, we near'd the house ; but 
she, a Rose 

In roses, mingled with her fragrant toil, 

Nor heard us come, nor from her tend- 
ance turn'd 

Into the world without ; till close at 
hand, 

And almost ere I knew mine own in- 
tent, 

This murmur broke the stillness of that 
air 

Which brooded round about her : 



" Ah, one rose, 
One rose, but one, by those fair fingers 

cull'd, 
Were worth a hundred kisses press' d 

on lips 
Less exquisite than thine." 

She look'd : but all 
Suffused with blushes — neither self- 

possess'd 
Nor startled, but betwixt this mood 

and that, 
Divided in a graceful quiet — paused, 
And dropt the branch she held, and 

turning, wound 
Her looser hair in braid, and stirr'd her 

lips 
For some sweet answer, tho' no answer 

came, 
Nor yet refused the rose, but granted 

it, 
And moved away, and left me, statue- 
like, 
In act to render thanks. 

I, that whole day, 
Saw her no more, altho' I linger'd there 
Till every daisy slept, and Love's white 

star 
Beam'd thro' the thicken'd cedar in the 

dusk. 
So home we went, and all the livelong 

way 
With solemn gibe did Eustace banter 

me. 
" Now," said he, "will you climb the 

top of Art. 
You cannot fail but work in hues to dim 
The Titianic Flora. Will you match 
My Juliet? you, not you, — the Mas- 
ter, Love, 
A more ideal Artist he than all." 
So home I went, but could not sleep 

for joy, 
Reading her perfect features in the 

gloom, 
Kissing the rose she gave me o'er and 

o'er, 
And shaping faithful record of the 

glance 
That graced the giving — suctfpboise 

of life 
Swarm' d in the golden present, such a 

voice 
Call'd to me from the years to come,' 

and such 



62 



THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER. 






A length of bright horizon rimm'd the 

dark. 
And all that night I heard the watch- 
men peal 
The sliding season : all that night I 

heard 
The heavy clocks knolling the drowsy 

hours. 
The drowsy hours, dispensers of all 

good, 
O'er the mute city stole with folded 

wings, 
Distilling odors on me as they went 
To greet their fairer sisters of the 

East. 
Love at first sight, first-born, and 

heir to all, 
Made this night thus. Henceforward 

squall nor storm 
Could keep me from that Eden where 

she dwelt. 
Light pretexts drew me : sometimes a 

Dutch love 
For tulips ; then for roses, moss or 

musk, 
To grace my city-rooms ; or fruits and 

cream 
Served in the weeping elm ; and more 

and more 
A word could bring the color to my 

cheek ; 
A thought would fill my eyes with 

happy dew ; 
Love trebled life within me, and with 

each 
The year increased. 

The daughters of the year, 
One after one, thro' that still garden 

pass'd : 
Each garlanded with her peculiar flower 
Danced into light, and died into the 

shade ; 
And each in passing touch'd with some 

new grace 
Or seem'd to touch her, so that day by 

day, 
Like one that never can be wholly 

known, 
Her beauty grew ; till Autumn brought 

an hour 
For Eustace, when I heard his q\eep 

" 1 will," 
Breathed, like the covenant of a God, 

to hold 



From thence thro' all the worlds : but 

I rose up 
Full of his bliss, and following her 

dark eyes 
Felt earth as air beneath me, till I 

reach'd 
The wicket-gate, and found her stand- 
ing there. 
There sat we down upon a garden 

mound, 
Two mutually enfolded ; Love, the 

third, < 
Between us, in the circle of his arms 
Enwound us both ; and over many a 

range 
Of waning lime the gray cathedral 

towers, 
Across a hazy glimmer of the west, 
Reveal'd their shining windows: from 

them clash'd 
The bells ; we listen'd ; with the time 

we play'd ; 
We spoke of other things ; we coursed 

about 
The subject most at heart, more near 

and near, 
Like doves about a dovecote, wheeling 

round 
The central wish, until we settled there. 
Then, in that time and place, I spoke 

to her, 
Requiring, tho' I knew it was mine 

own, 
Yet for the pleasure that I took to hear, 
Requiring at her hand the greatest gift, 
A woman's heart, the heart of her I 

loved ; 
And in that time and place she an- 

swer'd me, 
And in the compass of three little 

words, 
More musical than ever came in one, 
The silver fragments of a broken voice, 
Made me most happy, faltering " I am 

thine." 
Shall I cease here ? Is this enough 

to say 
That my desire, like all strongest 

hopes, 
By its own energy fulfill'd itself, 
Merged in completion? Would you 

learn at full 
How passion rose thro' circumstantial 

grades 



DORA. 



63 



Beyond all grades develop'd ? and in- 
deed 

[ had not stayed so long to tell you all, 

But while I mused came Memory with 
sad eyes, 

Holding the folded annals of my youth ; 

And while I mused, Love with knit 
brows went by, 

And with a flying finger swept my lips, 

Arid spake, " Be wise : not easily for- 
given 

Are those, who, setting wide the doors 
that bar 

The secret bridal chambers of the heart, 

Let in the day." Here, then, my words 
have end. 
Yet might I tell of meetings, of fare- 
wells — 

Of that which came between, more 
sweet than each, 

In whispers, like the whispers of the 
leaves 

That tremble round a nightingale — in 
sighs 

Which perfect Joy, perplex'd for utter- 
ance, 

Stole from her sister Sorrow. Might I 
not tell 

Of difference, reconcilement, pledges 
given, 

And vows, where there was never need 
of vows, 

And kisses, where the heart on one 
wild leap 

Hung tranced from all pulsation, as 
above 

The heavens between their fairy fleeces 
pale 

Sow'd all their mystic gulfs with fleeting 
stars ; 

Or while the balmy glooming, crescent-lit, 

Spread the light haze along the river- 
shores, 

And in the hollows ; or as once we met 

Unheedful, tho' beneath a whispering 
rain 

Night slid down one long stream of 
sighing wind, 

And in her bosom bore the baby, Sleep. 
But this whole hour your eyes have 
been intent 

On that veil'd picture — veil'd, for 
what it holds 

May not be dwelt onby the common day. 



This prelude has prepared thee. Raise 

thy soul ; 
Make thine heart ready with thine 

eyes ; the time 
Is come to raise the veil. 

Behold her there, 
As I beheld her ere she knew my 

heart, 
My first, last love ; the idol of my 

youth, 
The darling of my manhood, and, alas ! 
Now the most blessed memory of mine 

age. 



DORA. 

With farmer Allan at the farm abode 
William and Dora. William was his 

son, 
And she his niece. He often look'd at 

them, 
And often thought "I '11 make them 

man and wife." 
Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all, 
And yearn'd towards William ; but the 

youth, because 
He had been always with her in the 

house, 
Thought not of Dora. 

Then there came a day 
When Allan call'd his son, and said, 

" My son : 
I married late, but I would wish to see 
My grandchild on my knees before I 

die : 
And I have set my heart upon a match. 
Now therefore look to Dora ; she is well 
To look to ; thrifty too beyond her age. 
She is my brother's daughter : he and I 
Had once hard words, and parted, and 

he died 
In foreign lands ; but for his sake I bred 
His daughter Dora ; take her for your 

wife ; 
For I have wish'd this marriage, night 

and day, 
For many years." But William an- 
swer' d short : 
" I cannot marry Dora ; by my life, 
I will not marry Dora." Then the old 

man 
Was wroth, and doubled up his hands, 

and said : 



6 4 



DORA. 



" You will not, boy ! you dare to an- 
swer thus ! 
But in my time a father's word was 

law, 
And so it shall be now for me. Look 

to it ; 
Consider, William : take a month to 

think, 
And let me have an answer to my wish ; 
Or, by the Lord that made me, you 

shall pack, 
And never more darken my doors 

again." 
But William answer'd madly ; bit his 

lips, 
And broke away. The more he look'd 

at her 
The less he liked her ; and his ways 

were harsh ; 
But Dora bore them meekly. Then 

before 
The month was out he left his father's 

house, 
And hired himself to work within the 

fields ; 
And half in love, half spite, he woo'd 

and wed 
A laborer's daughter, Mary Morrison. 
Then, when the bells were ringing, 

Allan call'd 
His niece and said : " My girl, I love 

you well ; 
But if you speak with him that was my 

son, 
Or change a word with her he calls his 

wife, 
My home is none of yours. My will is 

law." 
And Dora promised, being meek. She 

thought, 
" It cannot be : my uncle's mind will 

change ! " 
And days went on, and there was 

born a boy 
To William ; then distresses came on 

him ; 
And day by day he pass'd his father's 

gate, 
Heart-broken, and his father help'd 

him not. 
But Dora stored what little she could 

save, 
And sent it them by stealth, nor did 

they know 



Who sent it ; till at last a fever seized 
On William, and in harvest time he 

died. 

Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat 
And look'd with tears upon her boy, 

and thought 
Hard things of Dora. Dora came and 

said : 

" I have obey'd my uncle until now, 
And I have sinn'd, for it was all thro' me 
This evil came on William at the first. 
But, Mary, for the sake of him that 's 

gone, 
And for your sake, the woman that he 

chose, 
And for this orphan, I am come to you : 
You know there has not been for these 

five years 

So full a harvest : let me take the boy, 
And I will set him in my uncle's eye 
Among the wheat ; that when his heart 

is glad 
Of the full harvest, he may see the boy, 
And bless him for the sake of him 

that 's gone." 
And Dora took the child, and went 

her way 
Across the wheat, and sat upon a 

mound 
That was unsown, where many pop- 
pies grew. 
Far off the farmer came into the field 
And spied her not ; for none of all his 

men 
Dare tell him Dora waited with the 

child ; 
And Dora would have risen and gone 

to him, 
But her heart fail'd her ; and the reap- 
ers reap'd, 
And the sun fell, and all the land was 

dark. 
But when the morrow came, she rose 

and took 
The child once more, and sat upon the 

mound ; 
And made a little wreath of all the 

flowers 
That grew about, and tied it round his 

hat 
To make him pleasing in her uncle's 

eye. 
Then when the farmer pass'd into the 

field 



DORA. 



65 



He spied her, and he left his men at 

work, 
And came and said : " Where were 

you yesterday ? 
Whose child is that ! What are you 

doing here ? " 
So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground, 
And answer'd softly, " This is Wil- 
liam's child ! " 
"And did I not," said Allan, " did I not 
Forbid you, Dora ? " Dora said again, 
" Do with me as you will, but take the 

child 
And bless him for the sake of him 

that 's gone ! " 
And Allan said, " I see it is a trick 
Got up betwixt you and the woman 

there. 
I must be taught my duty, and by you ! 
You knew my word was law, and yet 

you dared 
To slight it. Well — for I will take 

the boy ; 
But go you hence, and never see me 

more." 
So saying, he took the boy, that cried 

aloud 
And struggled hard. The wreath of 

flowers fell 
At Dora's feet. She bow'd upon her 

hands, 
And the boy's cry came to her from the 

field, 
More and more distant. She bow'd 

down her head, 
Remembering the day when first she 

came, 
And all the things that had been. She 

bow'd down 
And wept in secret ; and the reapers 

reap'd, 
And the sun fell, and all the land was 

dark. 
Then Dora went to Mary's house, 

and stood 
Upon the threshold. Mary saw the boy 
Was not with Dora. She broke out in 

praise 
To God, that help'd her in her widow- 
hood. 
And Dora said, " My uncle took the 

boy ; 
But, Mary, let me live and work with 

you : 

5 



He says that he will never see me 

more." 
Then answer'd Mary, " This shall 

never be, 
That thou shouldst take my trouble on 

thyself : 
And, now I think, he shall not have 

the boy, 
For he will teach him hardness, and to 

slight 
His mother ; therefore thou and I will 

go, 
And I will have my boy, and bring 

him home ; 
And I will beg of him to take thee back ; 
But if he will not take thee back again, 
Then thou and I will live within one 

house, 
And work for William's child, until he 

grows 
Of age to help us." 

So the women kiss'd 
Each other, and set out, and reach'd 

the farm. 
The door was off the latch : they 

peep'd, and saw 
The boy set up betwixt his grandsire's 

knees, 
Who thrust him in the hollows of his 

arm, 
And clapt him on the hands and on the 

cheeks, 
Like one that loved him ; and the lad 

stretch'd out 
And babbled for the golden seal, that 

hung 
From Allan's watch, and sparkled by 

the fire. 
Then they came in : but when the boy 

beheld 
His mother, he cried out to come to her: 
And Allan set "him down, and Mary 

said : 
" O Father ! — if you let me call you 

so — » 
I never came a-begging for myself 
Or William, or this child ; but now I 

come 
For Dora : take her back ; she loves 

you well. 
O Sir, when William died, he died at 

peace 
With all men ; for I ask'd him, and he 

said, 



66 



AUDLEY COURT. 



He could not ever rue his marrying 

me — 
I had been a patient wife : but, Sir, he 

said 
That he was wrong to cross his father 

thus : 
' God bless him ! ' he said, ' and may 

he never know 
The troubles I have gone thro' ! ' Then 

he turn'd 
His face and pass'd — unhappy that I 

am ! 
But now, Sir, let me have my boy, for 

you 
Will make him hard, and he will learn 

to slight 
His father's memory ; and take Dora 

back, 
And let all this be as it was before." 

So Mary said, and Dora hid her face 
By Mary. There was silence in the 

room ; 
And all at once the old man burst in 

sobs : 
" I have been to blame — to blame. 

I have kill'd my son. 
I have kill'd him — but I loved him — 

my dear son. 
May God forgive me ! — I have been to 

blame. 
Kiss me, my children." 

Then they clung about 
The old man's neck, and kiss'd him 

many times. 
And all the man was broken with re- 
morse ; 
And all his love came back a hundred- 
fold ; 
And for three hours he sobb'd o'er 

William's child, 
Thinking of William. 

So those four abode 
Within one house together ; and as 

years 
Went forward, Mary took another mate; 
But Dora lived unmarried till her 

death. 



AUDLEY COURT. 

"The Bull, the Fleece are cramm'd, 

and not a room 
For love or money. Let us picnic there 
At Audley Court." 



I spoke, while Audley feast 

Humm'd like a hive all round the 
narrow quay, 

To Francis, with a basket on his arm, 

To Francis just alighted from the boat, 

And breathing of the sea. " With all 
my heart," 

Said Francis. Then we shoulder'd 
thro' the swarm, 

And rounded by the stillness of the 
beach 

To where the bay runs up its latest 
horn. 
We left the dying ebb that faintly 
lipp'd 

The flat red granite ; so by many a 
sweep 

Of meadow smooth from aftermath we 
reach'd 

The griffin-guarded gates, and pass'd 
thro' all 

The pillar'd dusk of sounding syca- 
mores, 

And cross'd the garden to the garden- 
er's lodge, 

With all its casements bedded, and its 
walls 

And chimneys muffled in the leafy 
vine. 
There, on a slope of orchard, Fran- 
cis laid 

A damask napkin wrought with horse 
and hound, 

Brought out a dusky loaf that smelt of 
home, 

And, half- cut- down, a pasty costly- 
made, 

Where quail and pigeon, lark and lev- 
eret lay, 

Like fossils of the rock, with golden 
yolks 

Imbedded and injellied ; last, with 
these, 

A flask of cider from his father's vats, 

Prime, which I knew ; and so we sat I 
and eat 

And talk'd old matters over : who was i 
dead, 

Who married, who was like to be, and 
how 

The races went, and who would rent 
the hall : 

Then touch'd upon the game, how 
scarce it was 



WALKING TO THE MAIL. 



This season ; glancing thence, dis- 
cuss' d the farm, 
The fourfield system, and the price of 

grain ; 
And struck upon the corn-laws, where 

we split, 
And came again together on the king 
With heated faces ; till he laugh' d 

aloud ; 
And, while the blackbird on the pippin 

hung 
To hear him, clapt his hand in mine 

and sang : 
" O, who would fight and march and 

countermarch, 
Be shot for sixpence in a battle-field, 
And shovell'd up into a bloody trench 
Where no one knows ? but let me live 

my life. 
" O, who would cast and balance at 

a desk, 
Perch'd like a crow upon a three- 

legg'd stool, 
Till all his juice is dried, and all his 

joints 
Are full of chalk ? but let me live my 

life. 
" Who 'd serve the state ? for if I 

carved my name 
Upon the cliffs that guard my native 

land, 
I might as well have traced it in the 

sands ; 
The sea wastes all : but let me live my 

life. 
" O, who would love ? I woo'd a 

woman once, 
But she was sharper than an eastern 

wind, 
And all my heart turn'd from her, as a 

thorn 
Turns from the sea : but let me live 

my life." 
He sang his song, and I replied with 

mine? 
I found it in a volume, all of songs, 
Knock'd down to me, when old Sir 

Robert's pride, 
His books — the more the pity, so I 

said — 
Came to the hammer here in March — 

and this — 
I set the words, and added names I 

knew. 



" Sleep, Ellen Aubrey, sleep, and 

dream of me : 
Sleep, Ellen, folded in thy sister's arm, 
And sleeping, haply dream her arm is 

mine. 
" Sleep, Ellen, folded in Emilia's 

arm ; 
Emilia, fairer than all else but thou, 
For thou art fairer than all else that is. 
" Sleep, breathing health and peace 

upon her breast : 
Sleep, breathing love and trust against 

her lip : 
I go to-night : I come to-morrow morn. 
" I go, but I return : I would I were 
The pilot of the darkness and the 

dream. 
Sleep, Ellen Aubrey, love, and dream 

of me." 
So sang we each to either, Francis 

Hale, 
The farmer's son who lived across the 

bay, 
My friend ; and I, that having where- 
withal, 
And in the fallow leisure of my life, 
Did what I would ; but ere the night 

we rose 
And saunter' d home beneath a moon, 

that, just 
In crescent, dimly rain'd about the leaf 
Twilights of airy silver, till we reach' d 
The limit of the hills ; and as we sank 
From rock to rock upon the glooming 

quay, 
The town was hush'd beneath us : 

lower down 
The bay was oily-calm ; the harbor- 
buoy 
With one green sparkle ever and anon 
Dipt by itself, and we were glad at 

heart. 



WALKING TO THE MAIL. 

John. I 'm glad I walk'd. How fresh 
the meadows look 
Above the river, and, but a month ago, 
The whole hillside was redder than a 

fox. 
Is yon plantation where this byway joins 
The turnpike ? 
James. Yes. 



68 



WALKING TO THE MAIL. 



John. And when does this come by ? 
James. The mail ? At one o'clock. 
John. What is it now ? 

James. A quarter to. * 
John. Whose house is that I see ? 
No, not the County Member's with the 

vane : 
Up higher with the yewtree by it, and 

half 
A score of gables. 

James. That ? Sir Edward Head's : 

But he 's abroad : the place is to be 

sold. 

John. O, his. He was not broken. 

James. No, sir, he, 

Vex'd with a morbid devil in his blood 

That veil'd the world with jaundice, hid 

his face 
From all men, and commencing with 

himself, 
He lost the sense that handles daily 

life — 
That keeps us all in order more or less — 
And sick of home went overseas for 
change. 
John. And whither ? 
James. Nay, who knows? he 's here 
and there. 
But let him go ; his devil goes with him, 
As well as with his tenant, Jocky Dawes. 
John. What 's that ? 
James. You saw the man — on Mon- 
day, was it ? — 
There by the humpback'd willow ; half 

stands up 
And bristles ; half has fall'n and made 

a bridge ; 
And there he caught the younker tick- 
ling trout — 
Caught \xvjiagrante — what 's the Latin 

word ? — 
Delicto : but his house, for so they say, 
Was haunted with a jolly ghost, that 

shook 
The curtains, whined in lobbies, tapt at 

doors, 
And rummaged like a rat : no servant 

stay'd : 
The farmer vext packs up his beds and 

chairs, 
And all his household stuff; and with 

his boy 
Betwixt his knees, his wife upon the 
tilt, 



Sets out, and meets a friend who hails 

him, " What ! 
You're flitting ! " " Yes, we 're flitting," 

says the ghost, 
(For they had pack'd the thing among 

the beds,) 
" O well," says he, "you flitting with 

us too — • 
Jack, turn the horses' heads and home 

again." 
John. He left his wife behind ; for 

so I heard. 
James. He left her, yes. I met my 

lady once : 
A woman like a butt, and harsh as crabs. 
John. O yet but I remember, ten 

years back — 
'T is now at least ten years — and then 

she was — 
You could not light upon a sweeter 

thing : 
A body slight and round, and like a pear 
In growing, modest eyes, a hand, a foot 
Lessening in perfect cadence, and a 

skin 
As clean and white as privet when it 

flowers. 
James. Ay, ay, the blossom fades, 

and they that loved 
At first like dove and dove were cat and 

dog. 
She was the daughter of a cottager, 
Out of her sphere. What betwixt shame 

and pride, 
New things and old, himself and her, 

she sour'd 
To what she is : a nature never kind ! 
Like men, like manners : like breeds 

like, they say. 
Kind nature is the best : those manners 

next 

That fit us like a nature second-hand ; 
Which are indeed the manners of the 

great. 
John. But I had heard it was this 

bill that past, 
And fear of change at home, that drove 

him hence. 
James. That was the last drop in the 

cup of gall. 
I once was near him, when his bailiff 

brought 
A Chartist pike. You should have seen [ 

him wince 



EDWIN MORRIS. 



69 



As from a venomous thing : he thought 

himself 
A mark for all, and shudder'd, lest a cry 
Should break his sleep by night, and 

his nice eyes 
Should see the raw mechanic's bloody 

thumbs 
Sweat on his blazon'd chairs ; but, sir, 

you know 
That these two parties still divide the 

world — 
Of those that want, and those that have: 

and still 
The same old sore breaks out from age 

to age 
With much the same result. Now I 

myself, 
A Tory to the quick, was as a boy 
Destructive, when I had not what I 

would. 
I was at school — a college in the South : 
There lived a flayflint near ; we stole 

his fruit, 
His hens, his eggs ; but there was law 

for us ; 
We paid in person. He had a sow, sir. 

She, 
With meditative grunts of much con- 
tent, 
Lay great with pig, wallowing in sun 

and mud. 
By night we dragg'd her to the college 

tower 
From her warm bed, and up the cork- 
screw stair 
With hand and rope we haled the 

groaning sow, 
And on the leads we kept her till she 

pigg'd. 
Large range of prospect had the mother 

sow, 
And but for daily loss of one she loved, 
As one by one we took them — but for 

this — 
'As never sow was higher in this world — 
Might have been happy : but what lot 

is pure ? 
We took them all, till she was left alone 
! Upon her tower, the Niobe of swine, 
-■And so return'd unfarrow'd to her sty. 
1 John. They found you out ? 

James. Not they. 

' John. Well — after all — 

What know we of the secret of a man ? 



X 



His nerves were wrong. What ails us, 

who are sound, 
That we should mimic this raw fool the 

world, 
Which charts us all in its coarse blacks 

or whites, 
As ruthless as a baby with a worm, 
As cruel as a schoolboy ere he grows 
To Pity — more from ignorance than 

will. 
But put your best foot forward, or I 

fear 
That we shall miss the mail : and here 

it comes 
With five at top : as quaint a four-in- 
hand 
As you shall see — three piebalds and 

a roan. 



EDWIN MORRIS; OR, THE 
LAKE. 

O me, my pleasant rambles by the 
lake, 
My sweet, wild, fresh three quarters of 

a year, 
My one Oasis in the dust and drouth 
Of city life ! I was a sketcher then : 
See here, my doing : curves of moun- 
tain, bridge, 
Boat, island, ruins of a castle, built 
When men knew how to build, upon a 

rock, 
With turrets lichen-gilded like a rock : 
And here, new-comers in an ancient 

hold, 
New-comers from the Mersey, million- 

naires, 
Here lived the Hills — a Tudor-chim- 
neyed bulk 
Of mellow brickwork on an isle of 
bowers. 

O me, my pleasant rambles by the 

lake 
With Edwin Morris and with Edward 

Bull 
The curate ; he was fatter than his cure. 

But Edwin Morris, he that knew the 
names, 
Long learned names of agaric, moss, 
and fern, 



70 



EDWIN MORRIS. 



Who forged a thousand theories of the 

rocks, 
Who taught me how to skate, to row, 

to swim, 
Who read me rhymes elaborately good, 
His own — I call'd him Crichton, for 

he seem'd 
All-perfect, finish' d to the finger nail. 

And once I ask'd him of his early life, 
And his first passion ; and he answer'd 

me ; 
And well his words became him : was 

he not 
A full-celPd honeycomb of eloquence 
Stored from all flowers ? Poet-like he 

spoke. 

" My love for Nature is as old as I ; 
But thirty moons, one honeymoon to 

that, 
And three rich sennights more, my love 

for her. 
My love for Nature and my love for 

her, 
Of different ages, like twin-sisters grew, 
Twin-sisters differently beautiful. 
To some full music rose and sank the 

sun, 
And some full music seem'd to move 

and change 
With all the varied changes of the dark, 
And either twilight and the day be- 
tween ; 
For daily hope fulfill'd, to rise again 
Revolving toward, fulfilment, made it 

sweet 
To walk, to sit, to sleep, to breathe, to 

wake." 

Or this or something like to this he 
spoke. 
Then said the fat-faced curate, Edward 
Bull: 

" I take it, God made the woman for 
the man, 

And for the good and increase of the 
world. 

A pretty face is well, and this is well, 

To have a dame indoors, that trims us 
up, 

And keeps us tight ; but these unreal 
ways 

Seem but the theme of writers, and in- 
deed 



Worn threadbare. Man is made of 

solid stuff. 
I say, God made the woman for the man, 
And for the good and increase of the 

world." 

" Parson," said I, "you pitch the pipe 

too low : 
But I have sudden touches, and can 

run 
My faith beyond my practice into his : 
Tho' if, in dancing after Letty Hill, 
I do not hear the bells upon my cap, 
I scarce hear other music : yet say on. 
' What should one give to light on such 

a dream ? " 
I ask'd him half-sardonically. 

"Give? 
Give all thou art," he answer'd, and a 

light 
Of laughter dimpled in his swarthy 

cheek ; 
" I would have hid her needle in my 

heart, 
To save her little finger from a scratch 
No deeper than the skin : my ears could 

hear 
Her lightest breaths : her least remark 

was worth 
The experience of the wise. I went 

and came ; 
Her voice fled always thro' the summer 

land ; 
I spoke her name alone. Thrice-happy 

days ! 
The flower of each, those moments 

when we met, 
The crown of all, we met to part no 

more." 

Were not his words delicious, I a 
beast 

To take them as I did ? but something 
jarr'd ; 

Whether he spoke too largely ; that 
there seem'd 

A touch of something false, some self- 
conceit, 

Or over-smoothness : howsoe'erit was, 

He sc'arcely hit my humor, and I said : 

" Friend Edwin, do not think your- 
self alone 
Of all men happy. Shall not Love to 
me, 



EDWIN MORRIS. 



7i 



, As in the Latin song I learnt at school, 
Sneeze out a full God-bless-you right 

and left ? 
" But you can talk : yours is a kindly vein: 
• I have, I think, — Heaven knows — as 

much within ; 
1 Have, or should have, but for a thought 

or two, 
[ That like a purple beech among the 

greens 
; Looks out of place : 't is from no want 

in her : 
It is my shyness, or my self-distrust, 
, Or something of a wayward modern 
j mind 

Dissecting passion. Time will set me 

right." 

So spoke I knowing not the things 

that were. 
Then said the fat-faced curate, Edward 

Bull: 
" God made the woman for the use of 

man, 
And for the good and increase of the 

world." 
And I and Edwin laugh'd ; and now 

we paused 
About the windings of the marge to hear 
The soft wind blowing over meadowy 

holms 
And alders, garden-isles ; and now we 

left 
The clerk behind us, I and he, and ran 
By ripply shallows of the lisping lake, 
Delighted with the freshness and the 

sound. 

But, when the bracken rusted on their 

crags, 
My suit had wither' d, nipt to death by 

him 
That was a God, and is a lawyer's clerk, 
The rentroll Cupid of our rainy isles. 
'T is true, we met ; one hour I had, no 

more : 
She sent a note, the seal an Elle vous 

suit, 
The close " Your Letty, only yours " ; 

and this 
Thrice underscored. The friendly mist 

of morn 
Clung to the lake. I boated oyer, ran 
My craft aground, and heard with beat- 
ing heart 



The Sweet- Gale rustle round the shelv- 
ing keel ; 
And out I stept, and up I crept : she 

moved, 
Like Proserpine in Enna, gathering 

flowers : 
Then low and sweet I whistled thrice ; 

and she, 
She turn'd, we closed, we kiss'd, swore 

faith, I breathed 
In some new planet : a silent cousin 

stole 
Upon us and departed : " Leave," she 

cried, 
" O leave me ! " " Never, dearest, 

never : here 
I brave the worst " : and while we stood 

like fools 
Embracing, all at once a score of pugs 
And poodles yell'd within, and out they 

came 
Trustees and Aunts and Uncles. 

" What, with him ! " 
" Go " (shrill'd the cottonspinning cho- 
rus) " him ! " 
I choked. Again they shriek'd the 

burthen " Him ! " 
Again with hands of wild rejection 

" Go ! — 
Girl, get you in ! " She went — and in 

one month 
They wedded her to sixty thousand 

pounds, 
To lands in Kent and messuages in 

York, _ 
And slight Sir Robert with his watery 

smile 
And educated whisker. But for me, 
They set an ancient creditor to work : 
It seems I broke a close with force and 

arms : 
There came a mystic token from the 

king 
To greet the sheriff, needless cour- 
tesy ! 
I read, and fled by night, and flying 

turn'd : 
Her taper glimmer'd in the lake below : 
I turn'd once more, close-button'd to 

the storm ; 
So left the place, left Edwin, nor have 

seen 
Him since, nor heard of her, nor cared 

to hear. 



72 



ST. SIMEON STYLITES. 



Nor cared to hear ? perhaps : yet long 
ago 

I have pardon'd little Letty ; not in- 
deed, 

It may be, for her own dear sake but 
this, 

She seems a part of those fresh days to 
me ; 

For in the dust and drouth of London 
life 

She moves among my visions of the 
lake, 

While the prime swallow dips his wing, 
or then 

While the gold-lily blows, and overhead 

The light cloud smoulders on the sum- 
mer crag. 



ST. SIMEON STYLITES. 

Altho' I be the basest of mankind, 
From scalp to sole one slough and crust 

of sin, 
Unfit for earth, unfit for heaven, scarce 

meet 
For troops of devils, mad with blasphe- 
my, 
I will not cease to grasp the hope I 

hold 
Of saintdom, and to clamor, mourn, 

and sob, 
Battering the gates of heaven with 

storms of prayer, 
Have mercy, Lord, and take away my sin. 
Let this avail, just, dreadful, mighty 

God, 
This not be all in vain, that thrice ten 

years, 
Thrice multiplied by superhumanpangs, 
In hungers and in thirsts, fevers and 

cold, 
In coughs, aches, stitches, ulcerous 

throes and cramps, 
A sign betwixt the meadow and the 

cloud, 
Patient on this tall pillar I have borne 
Rain, wind, frost, heat, hail, damp, and 

sleet, and snow ; 
And I had hoped that ere this period 

closed 
Thou wouldst have caught me up into 

thy rest, 



Denying not these weather-beaten 

limbs 
The meed of saints, the white robe and 

the palm. 
O take the meaning, Lord : I do not 

breathe, 
Not whisper, any murmur of complaint. 
Pain heap'd ten-hundred-fold to this, 

were still 
Less burthen, by ten-hundred-fold, to 

bear, 
Than were those lead-like tons of sin, 

that crush'd 
My spirit flat before thee. 

O Lord, Lord, 
Thou knowest I bore this better at the 

first, 
For I was strong and hale of body 

then ; 
And tho' my teeth, which now are dropt 

away, 
Would chatter with the cold, and all 

my beard 
Was tagg'd with icy fringes in the moon, 
I drown' d the whoopings of the owl 

with sound 
Of pious hymns and psalms, and some- 
times saw 
An angel stand and watch me, as I sang. 
Now am I feeble grown ; my end draws 

nigh; 
I hope my end draws nigh : half deaf 

I am, 
So that I scarce can hear the people 

hum 
About the column's base, and almost 

blind, 
And scarce can recognize the fields I 

know; 
And both my thighs are rotted with 

the dew ; 
Yet cease I not to clamor and to cry, 
While my stiff spine can hold my weary 

head, 
Till all my limbs drop piecemeal from 

the stone, 
Have mercy, mercy : take away my 

sin. 
O Jesus, if thou wilt not save my 

soul, 
Who may be saved ? who is it may be 

saved ? 
Who may be made a saint, if I fail 

here? 



ST. SIMEON STYLITES. 



73 



Show me the man hath suffer'd more 

than I. 
For did not all thy martyrs die one 

death ? 
For either they were stoned, or crucified, 
Or burn'd' in fire, or boil'd in oil, or 

sawn 
In twain beneath the ribs ; but I die 

here 
To-day, and whole years long, a life of 

death. 
Bear witness, if I could have found a 

way 
(And heedfully I sifted all my thought) 
More slowly-painful to subdue this 

home 
Of sin, my flesh, which I despise and 

hate, 
I had not stinted practice, O my God. 
For not alone this pillar-punishment, 
Not this alone I bore : but while I 

lived 
In the white convent down the valley 

there, 
For many weeks about my loins I wore 
The rope that haled the buckets from 

the well, 
Twisted as tight as I could knot the 

noose ; 
And spake not of it to a single soul, 
Until the ulcer, eating thro' my skin, 
Betray'd my secret penance, so that all 
My brethren marvell'd greatly. More 

than this 
I bore, whereof, O God, thou knowest 

all. 
Three winters, that my soul might 

grow to thee, 
I lived up there on yonder mountain 

side. 
My right leg chain'd into the crag, I 

lay 
Pent in a roofless close of ragged 

stones ; 
Inswathed sometimes in wandering 

mist, and twice 
Black'd with thy branding thunder, and 

sometimes 
Sucking the damps for drink, and eat- 
ing not, 
Except the spare chance-gift of those 

that came 
To touch my body and be heal'd, and 

live : 



And they say then that I work'd mira- 
cles, 
Whereof my fame is loud amongst 

mankind, 
Cured lameness, palsies, cancers. Thou, 

OGod, 
Knowest alone whether this was or no. 
Have mercy, mercy ; cover all my sin. 
Then, that I might be more alone 

with thee, 
Three years I lived upon a pillar, high 
Six cubits, and three years on one of 

twelve ; 
And twice three years I crouch' d on 

one that rose 
Twenty by measure ; last of all, I grew, 
Twice ten long weary weary years to 

this, 
That numbers forty cubits from the soil. 
I think that I have borne as much 

as this — 
Or else I dream — and for so long a 

time, 
If I may measure time by yon slow 

light, 
And this high dial, which my sorrow 

crowns — 
So much — even so. 

And yet I know not well, 
For that the evil ones come here, and 

say, 
" Fall down, O Simeon : thou hast 

suffer'd long 
For ages and for ages ! " then they 

prate 
Of penances I cannot have gone thro', 
Perplexing me with lies ; and oft I fall, 
Maybe for months, in such blind leth- 
argies, 
That Heaven, and Earth, and Time 

are choked. 

But yet 
Bethink thee, Lord, while thou and all 

the saints 
Enjoy themselves in heaven, and men 

on earth 
House in the shade of comfortable 

roofs, 
Sit with their wives by fires, eat whole- 
some food, 
And wear warm clothes, and even 

beasts have stalls, 
\, 'tween the spring and downfall of 
the light, 



74 



ST. SIMEON STYLITES. 



Bow down one thousand and two hun- 
dred times. 

To Christ, the Virgin Mother, and the 
Saints ; 

Or in the night, after a little sleep, 

I wake : the chill stars sparkle ; I am wet 

With drenching dews, or stiff with 
crackling frost. 

I wear an undress' d goatskin on my 
back ; 

A grazing iron collar grinds my neck ; 

And in my weak, lean arms I lift the 
cross, 

And strive and wrestle with thee till I 
die : 

mercy, mercy ! wash away my sin. 
O Lord, thou knowest what a man I 

am ; 
A sinful man, conceived and born in 

sin : 
'Tis their own doing; this is none of 

mine ; 
Lay it not to me. Am I to blame for 

this, 
That here come those that worship me ? 

Ha ! ha ! 
They think that I am somewhat. 

What am I ? 
The silly people take me for a saint, 
And bring me offerings of fruit and 

flowers : 
And I, in truth (thou wilt bear witness 

here) 
Have all in all endured as much, and 

more 
Than many just and holy men, whose 

names 
Are register'd and calendar'd for saints. 
Good people, you do ill to kneel to me. 
What is it I can have done to merit this ? 

1 am a sinner viler than you all. 

It may be I have wrought some mira- 
cles, 

And cured some halt and maim'd ; but 
what of that ? 

It may be, no one, even among the 
saints, 

May match his pains with mine ; but 
what of that ? 

Yet do not rise : for you may look on me, 

And in your looking you may kneel to 
God. 

Speak ! is there any of you halt or 
maim'd? 



I think you know I have some power 

with Heaven 
From my long penance : let him speak 

his wish. 
Yes, I can heal him. Power goes 

forth from me. 
They say that they are heal'd. Ah, 

hark ! they shout 
" St. Simeon Stylites." Why, if so, 
God reaps a harvest in me. O my soul, 
God reaps a harvest in thee. If this be, 
Can I work miracles and not be saved? 
This is not told of any. They were 

saints. 
It cannot be but that I shall be saved ; 
Yea, crown'd a saint. They shout, 

" Behold a saint ! " 
And lower voices saint me from above. 
Courage, St. Simeon ! This dull chrys- 
alis 
Cracks into shining wings, and hope 

ere death 
Spreads more and more and more, that 

God hath now 
Sponged and made blank of crimeful 

record all 
My mortal archives. 

O my sons, my sons, 
I, Simeon of the pillar, by surname 
Stylites, among men ; I, Simeon, 
The watcher on the column till the 

end ; 
I, Simeon, whose brain the sunshine 

bakes ; 
I, whose bald brows in silent hours 

become 
Unnaturally hoar with rime, do now 
From my high nest of penance here 

proclaim 
That Pontius and Iscariot by my side 
Show'd like fair seraphs. On the coals 

I lay, 
A vessel full of sin : all hell beneath 
Made me boil over. Devils pluck'd my 

sleeve ; 
Abaddon and Asmodeus caught at me. 
I smote them with the cross ; they 

swarm' d again. 
In bed like monstrous apes they 

crush'd my chest : 
They flapp'd my light out as I read : I 

saw 
Their faces grow between me and my 

book : 



THE TALKING OAK. 



75 



With colt-like whinny and with hog- 
gish whine 
They burst my prayer. Yet this way 

was left, 
And by this way I 'scaped them. 

Mortify 
Your flesh, like me, with scourges and 

with thorns ; 
Smite, shrink not, spare not. If it 

may be, fast 
Whole Lents, and pray. I hardly, 

with slow steps, 
With slow, faint steps, and much ex- 
ceeding pain, 
Have scrambled past those pits of fire, 

that still 
Sing in mine ears. But yield not me 

the praise : 
God only thro' his bounty hath thought 

fit, 
Among the powers and princes of this 

world, 
To make me an example to mankind, 
Which few can reach to. Yet I do not 

say 
But that a time may come — yea, even 

now, 
Now, now, his footsteps smite the 

threshold stairs 
Of life — I say, that time is at the doors 
When you may worship me without 

reproach ; 
For I will leave my relics in your land, 
And you may carve a shrine about my 

dust, 
And burn a fragrant lamp before my 

bones, 
When I am gather'd to the glorious 

saints. 
While I spake then, a sting of 

shrewdest pain 
Ran shrivelling thro' me, and a cloud- 
like change, 
In passing, with a grosser film made 

thick . 

These heavy, horny eyes. The end ! 

the end ! 
Surely the end ! What 's here ? a 

shape, a shade, 
A flash of light. Is that the angel there 
That holds a crown? Come, blessed 

brother, come. 
I know " thy glittering face. I waited 

long; 



My brows are ready. What ! deny it 

now? 
Nay, draw, draw, draw nigh. So I 

clutch it. Christ ! 
'T is gone : 't is here again ; the crown ! 

the crown ! 
So now 't is fitted on and grows to me, 
And from it melt the dews of Paradise, 
Sweet ! sweet ! spikenard, and balm, 

and frankincense. 
Ah ! let me not be fool'd, sweet saints : 

I trust 
That I am whole, and clean, and meet 

for Heaven. 
Speak, if there be a priest, a man of 

God, 
Among you there, and let him presently 
Approach, and lean a ladder on the 

shaft, 
And climbing up into my airy home, 
Deliver me the blessed sacrament ; 
For by the warning of the Holy Ghost, 
I prophesy that I shall die to-night, 
A quarter before twelve. 

But thou, O Lord, 
Aid all this foolish people ; let them 

take 
Example, pattern : lead them to thy 

light. 



THE TALKING OAK. 

Once more the gate behind me falls ; 

Once more before my face 
I see the moulder'd Abbey-walls, 

That stand within the chace. 

Beyond the lodge the city lies, 
Beneath its drift of smoke ; 

And ah ! with what delighted eyes 
I turn to yonder oak. 

For when my passion first began, 
Ere that, which in me burn'd, 

The love, that makes me thrice a man, 
Could hope itself return'd ; 

To yonder oak within the field 

I spoke without restraint, 
And with a larger faith appeal'd 

Than Papist unto Saint. 

For oft I talk'd with him apart, 
And told him of my choice, 

Until he plagiarized a heart, 
And answer'd with a voice. 



76 



THE TALKING OAK. 



The' what he whisper'd, under Heaven 
None else could understand; 

I found him garrulously given, 
A babbler in the land. 

But since I heard him make reply 

Is many a weary hour ; 
'T were well to question him, and try 

If yet he keeps the power. 

Hail, hidden to the knees in fern, 
Broad Oak of Sumner-chace, 

Whose topmost branches can discern 
The roofs of Sumner-place ! 

Say thou, whereon I carved her name, 

If ever maid or spouse, 
As fair as my Olivia, came 

To rest beneath thy boughs. — 

" O Walter, I have shelter'd here 

Whatever maiden grace 
The good old Summers, year by ) r ear, 

Made ripe in Sumner-chace : 

"Old Summers, when the monk was 
fat, 

And, issuing shorn and sleek, 
Would twist his girdle tight, and pat 

The girls upon the cheek, 

" Ere yet, in scorn of Peter's-pence, 
And number'd bead, and shrift, 

Bluff Harry broke into the spence, 
And turn'd the cowls adrift : 

" And I have seen some score of those 
Fresh faces, that would thrive 

When his man-minded offset rose 
To chase the deer at five ; 

"And all that from the town would 
stroll, 

Till that wild wind made work 
In which the gloomy brewer's soul 

Went by me, like a stork : 

" The slight she-slips of loyal blood, 

And others, passing praise, 
Strait-laced, but all-too-full in bud 

For puritanic stays : 

" And I have shadow'd many a group 
Of beauties, that were born 

In teacup-times of hood and hoop, 
Or while the patch was worn ; 



"And, leg and arm with love-knots gay, 
About me leap'd and laugh'd 

The modish Cupid of the day, 
And shrill'd his tinsel shaft. 

" I swear (and else may insects prick 

Each leaf into a gall) 
This girl, for whom your heart is sick, 

Is three times worth them all ; 

" For those and theirs, by Nature's law, 

Have faded long ago ; 
But in these latter springs I saw 

Your own Olivia blow, 

" From when she gamboll'd on the 
greens, 

A baby-germ, to when 
The maiden blossoms of her teens 

Could number five from ten. 

" I swear, by leaf, and wind, and rain, 
(And hear me with thine ears,) 

That, tho' I circle in the grain 
Five hundred rings of years — 

" Yet, since I first could cast a shade, 

Did never creature pass 
So slightly, musically made, 

So light upon the grass : 

" For as to fairies, that will flit 
To make the greensward fresh, 

I hold them exquisitely knit, 
But far too spare of flesh." 

O, hide thy knotted knees in fern, 

And overlook the chace ; 
And from thy topmost branch discern | 

The roofs of Sumner-place. 

But thou, whereon I carved her name, 

That oft hast heard my vows, 
Declare when last Olivia came 

To sport beneath thy boughs. 
* 
" O yesterday, you know, the fair 

Was hoi den at the town ; 
Her father left his good arm-chair, 

And rode his hunter down. 

" And with him Albert came on his. 

I look'd at him with joy : 
As cowslip unto oxlip is, 

So seems she to the boy. 



THE TALKING OAK. 



77 



"An hour had past — and, sitting straight 
Within the low-wheel'd chaise, 

Her mother trundled to the gate 
Behind the dappled grays. 

" But, as for her, she stay'd at home, 

And on "the roof she went, 
And down the way you use to come 

She look'd with discontent. 

" She left the novel half-uncut 

Upon the rosewood shelf; 
She left the new piano shut : 

She could not please herself. 

" Then ran she, gamesome as the colt, 

And livelier than a lark 
She sent her voice thro' all the holt 

Before her, and the park. 

" A light wind chased her on the wing, 

And in the chase grew wild, 
As close as might be would he cling 

About the darling child : 

"But light as any wind that blows 

So fleetly did she stir, 
The flower, she touch'd on, dipt and 
rose, 

And turn'd to look at her. 

" And here she came, and round me 
play'd, 

And sang to me the whole 
Of those three stanzas that you made 

About my ' giant bole ' ; 

" And in a fit' of frolic mirth 
She strove to span my waist : 

Alas, I was so broad of girth, 
I could not be embraced. 

" I wish'd myself the fair young beech 

That here beside me stands, 
That round me, clasping each in each, 

§he might have lock'd her hands. 

" Yet seem'd the pressure thrice as 
sweet 

As woodbine's fragile hold, 
Or when I feel about my feet 

The berried briony fold." 

O muffle round thy knees with fern, 

And shadow Sumner-chace ! 
Long may thy topmost branch discern 

The roofs of Sumner-place ! 



But tell me, did she read the name 

I carved with many vows 
When last with throbbing heart I came 

To rest beneath thy boughs ? 

" O yes, she wander'd round and round 
These knotted knees of mine, 

And found, and kiss'd the name she 
found, 
And sweetly murmur'd thine. 

" A teardrop trembled from its source, 
And down my surface crept. 

My sense of touch is something coarse, 
But I believe she wept. 

"Then flush'd her cheek with rosy 
light, 

She glanced across the plain ; 
But not a creature was in sight : 

She kiss'd me once again. 

" Her kisses were so close and kind, 
That, trust me on my word, 

Hard wood I am, and wrinkled rind, 
But yet my sap was stirr'd : 

" And even into my inmost ring 

A pleasure I discern'd, 
Like those blind motions of the Spring, 

That show the year is turn'd. 

" Thrice-happy he that may caress 
The ringlet's waving balm — 

The cushions of whose touch may press 
The maiden's tender palm. 

"I, rooted here among the groves, 

But languidly adjust 
My vapid vegetable loves 

With anthers and with dust : 

" For ah ! my friend, the days were brief 

Whereof the poets talk, 
When that, which breathes within the 
leaf, 

Could slip its bark and walk. 

" But could I, as in times foregone, 
From spray, and branch, and stem, 

Have suck'd and gather'd into one 
The life that spreads in them, 

" She had not found me so remiss ; 

But lightly issuing thro', 
I would have paid her kiss for kiss 

With usury thereto." 



78 



THE TALKING OAK. 



O flourish high, with leafy towers, 

And overlook the lea, 
Pursue thy loves among the bowers, 

But leave thou mine to me. 
O flourish, hidden deep in fern, 

Old oak, I love thee well ; 
A thousand thanks for what I learn 

And what remains to tell. 
" 'T is little more : the day was warm ; 

At last, tired out with play, 
She sank her head upon her arm, 

And at my feet she lay. 

" Her eyelids dropp'd their silken 
eaves. 

I breathed upon her eyes 
Thro' all the summer of my leaves 

A welcome mix'd with sighs. 

" I took the swarming sound of life — 
The music from the town — 

The murmurs of the drum and fife 
And lull'd them in my own. 

" Sometimes I let a sunbeam slip, 

To light her shaded eye ; 
A second flutter'd round her lip 

Like a golden butterfly ; 

" A third would glimmer on her neck 
To make the necklace shine ; 

Another slid, a sunny fleck, 
From head to ankle fine. 

"Then close and dark my arms I spread, 
And shadow'd all her rest — 

Dropt dews upon her golden head, 
An acorn in her breast. 

" But in a pet she started up, 
And pluck'd it out, and drew 

My little oakling from the cup, 
And flung him in the dew. 

"And yet it was a graceful gift — 

I felt a pang within 
As when I see the woodman lift 

His axe to slay my kin. 

" I shook him down because he was 

The finest on the tree. 
He lies beside thee on the grass. 

O kiss him once for me. 

" O kiss him twice and thrice for me, 

That have no lips to kiss, 
For never yet was oak on lea 

Shall grow so fair as this." 



Step deeper yet in herb and fern, 
Look further thro' the chace, 

Spread upward till thy boughs discern 
The front of Sumner-place. 

This fruit of thine by Love is blest, 

That but a moment lay 
Where fairer fruit of Love may rest 

Some happy future day. 

I kiss it twice, I kiss it thrice, 
The warmth it thence shall win 

To riper life may magnetize 
The baby-oak within. 

But thou, while kingdoms overset, 
Or lapse from hand to hand, 

Thy leaf shall never fail, nor yet 
Thine acorn in the land. 

May never saw dismember thee, 

Nor wielded axe disjoint, 
That art the fairest-spoken tree 

From here to Lizard-point. 

O rock upon thy towery top . 

All throats that gurgle sweet ! 
All starry culmination drop 

Balm-dews to bathe thy feet ! 

All grass of silky feather grow — 
And while he sinks or swells 

The full south-breeze around thee blow 
The sound of minster bells. 

The fat earth feed thy branchy root, 
That under deeply strikes ! 

The northern morning o'er thee shoot, 
High up, in silver spikes ! 

Nor ever lightning char thy grain, 

But, rolling as in sleep, 
Low thunders bring the mellow rain, 

That makes thee broad and deep ! 

And hear me swear a solemn oath, 

That only by thy side 
Will I to Olive plight my troth, # 

And gain her for my bride. 

And when my marriage morn may fall, 
She, Dryad-like, shall wear 

Alternate leaf and acorn-ball 
In wreath about her hair. 

And I will work in prose and rhyme, 
And praise thee more in both 

Than bard has honor'd beech or lime, 
Or that Thessalian growth, 



LOVE AND DUTY, 



79 



In which the swarthy ringdove sat, 
And mystic sentence spoke ; 

And more than England honors that, 
Thy famous brother-oak, 

Wherein the younger Charles abode 
Till all the paths were dim, 

And far below the Roundhead rode, 
And humm'd a surly hymn. 



LOVE AND DUTY. 

Of love that never found his earthly 

close, 
What sequel ? Streaming eyes and 

breaking hearts ? 
Or all the same as if he had not been ? 
Not so. Shall Error in the round of 

time 
Still father Truth ? O shall the brag- 
gart shout 
For some blind glimpse of freedom 

work itself 
Thro' madness, hated by the wise, to 

law 
System and empire? Sin itself be 

found 
The cloudy porch oft opening on the 

Sun? 
And only he, this wonder, dead, become 
Mere highway dust? or year by year 

alone 
Sit brooding in the ruins of a life, 
Nightmare of youth, the spectre of 

himself? 
If this were thus, if this, indeed, 

were all, 
Better the narrow brain, the stony heart, 
The staring eye glazed o'er with sapless 

days, 
The long mechanic pacings to and fro, 
The set gray life, and apathetic end. 
But am I not the nobler thro' thy love ? 
O three times less unworthy ! likewise 

thou 
Art more thro' Love, and greater than 

thy years. 
The Sun will run his orbit, and the 

Moon 
Her circle. Wait, and Love himself 

will bring 
The drooping flower of knowledge 

changed to fruit 



Of wisdom. Wait : my faith is large 

in Time, 
And that which shapes it to some per- 
fect end. 
Will some one say, then why not ill 

for good ? 
Why took ye not your pastime? To 

that man 
My work shall answer, since I knew 

the right 
And did it ; for a man is not as God, 
But then most Godlike being most a 

man. 
— So let me think 't is well for thee 

and me — 
Ill-fated that I am, what lot is mine 
Whose foresight preaches peace, my 

heart so slow 
To feel it ! For how hard it seem'd 

to me, 
When eyes, love-languid thro' half- 
tears, would dwell 
One earnest, earnest moment upon 

mine, 
Then not to dare to see ! when thy low 

voice, 
Faltering, would break its syllables, to 

keep 
My own full-tuned, — hold passion in 

a leash, 
And not leap forth and fall about thy 

neck, 
And on thy bosom, (deep-desired 

relief !) 
Rain out the heavy mist of tears, that 

weigh'd 
Upon my brain, my senses, and my soul ! 
For Love himself took part against 

himself 
To warn us off, and Duty loved of 

< Love — 
O this world's curse, — beloved but 

hated — came 
Like Death betwixt thy dear embrace 

and mine, 
And crying, " Who is this? behold thy 

bride," 
She push'd me from thee. 

If the sense is hard 
To alien ears, I did not speak to 

these — 
No, not to thee, but to thyself in me : 
Hard is my doom and thine : thou 

knowest it all. 



8o 



THE GOLDEN YEAR. 



Could Love part thus? was it not 

well to speak, 
To have spoken once ? It could not 

but be well. 
The slow sweet hours that bring us all 

things good, 
The slow sad hours that bring us all 

things ill, 
And all good things from evil, brought 

the night 
In which we sat together and alone, 
And to the want, that hollow'd all the 

heart, 
Gave utterance by the yearning of an 

eye, 
That burn'd upon its object thro' such 

tears 
As flow but once a life. 

The trance gave way 
To those caresses, when a hundred 

times 
In that last kiss, which never was the 

last, 
Farewell, like endless welcome, lived 

and died. 
Then follow' d counsel, comfort, and 

the words 
That make a man feel strong in speak- 
ing truth ; 
Till now the dark was worn, and over- 
head 
The lights of sunset and of sunrise 

mix'd 
In that brief night ; the summer night, 

that paused 
Among her stars to hear us ; stars that 

hung 
Love-charm'd to listen : all the wheels 

of Time 
Spun round in station, but the end had 

come. 
O then like those, who clench their 

nerves to rush 
Upon their dissolution, we two rose, 
There — closing like an individual life — 
In one blind cry of passion and of 

pain, 
Like bitter accusation ev'n to death, 
Caught up the whole of love and 

utter'd it, 
And bade adieu forever. 

Live — yet live — 
Shall sharpest pathos blight us, know- 
ing all 



Life needs for life is possible to will — 
Live happy ; tend thy flowers ; be tend- 
ed by 
My blessing ! Should my Shadow 

cross thy thoughts 
Too sadly for their peace, remand it 

thou 
For calmer hours to Memory's darkest 

hold, 
If not to be forgotten — not at once — 
Not all forgotten. Should it cross thy 

dreams, 
O might it come like one that looks 

content, 
With quiet eyes unfaithful to the truth, 
And point thee forward to a distant 

light, 
Or seem to lift a burthen from thy 

heart 
And leave thee freer, till thou wake 

refresh'd, 
Then when the first low matin-chirp 

hath grown 
Full quire, and morning driv'n her 

plough of pearl 
Far furrowing into light the mounded 

rack, 
Beyond the fair green field and eastern 

sea. 



THE GOLDEN YEAR. 

Well, you shall have that song which 

Leonard wrote : 
It was last summer on a tour in Wales : 
Old James was with me : we that day 

had been 
Up Snowdon ; and I wish'd for Leon- 
ard there, ^ 
And found him in Llanberis : then we 

crost 
Between the lakes, and clamber'd half 

way up 
The counter side ; and that same song 

of his 
He told me ; for I banter'd him, and 

swore 
They said he lived shut up within 

himself, 
A tongue-tied Poet in the feverous 

days, 
That, setting the how much before the 

how, 



THE GOLDEN YEAR. 



Cry, like the daughters of the horse- 
leech, "give, 

Cram us with all," but count not me 
the herd ! 
To which " They call me what they 
will, 1 ' he said : 

But I was born too late : the fair new 
forms, 

That float about the threshold of an 

a § e ' 
Like truths of Science waiting to be 

caught — 
Catch me who can, and make the 

catcher crown'd — 
Are taken by the forelock. Let it be. 
But if you care indeed to listen, hear 
These measured words, my work of 

yestermorn. 
" We sleep and wake and sleep, but 

all things move ; 
The Sun flies forward to his brother 

Sun ; 
The dark Earth follows wheel'd in her 

ellipse ; 
And human things returning on them- 
selves 
Move onward, leading up the golden 

year. 
" Ah, tho' the times, when some new 

thought can bud, 
Are but as poets' seasons when they 

flower, 
Vet seas, that daily gain upon the shore, 
Have ebb and flow conditioning their 

march, 
And slow and sure comes up the 

golden year. 
" When wealth no more shall rest in 

mounded heaps, 
But smit with freer light shall slowly 

melt 
[n many streams to fatten lower lands, 
\nd light shall spread, and man be 

liker man 
Thro' all the season of the golden year. 
" Shall eagles not be eagles ? wrens 

be wrens ? 
I all the world were falcons, what of 

that ? 
The wonder of the eagle were the 

less, 
But he not less the eagle. Happy days 
ioll onward, leading up the golden 

year. 

6 



" Fly happy happy sails and bear the 

Press ; 
Fly happy with the mission of the 

Cross ; 
Knit land to land, and blowing haven- 
ward 
With silks, and fruits, and spices, clear 

of toll, 
Enrich the markets of the golden year. 
" But we grow old. Ah ! when shall 

all men's good 
Be each man's rule, and universal 

Peace 
Lie like a shaft of light across the land, 
And like a lane of beams athwart the 

sea, 
Thro' all the circle of the golden year ? " 
Thus far he flow'd, and ended ; 

whereupon 
" Ah, folly ! " in mimic cadence an- 

swer'd James — 
" Ah, folly ! for it lies so far away, 
Not in our time, nor in our children's 

time, 
'T is like the second world to us that 

live ; 
'T were all as one to fix our hopes on 

Heaven 
As on this vision of the golden year." 
With that he struck his staff against 

the rocks 
And broke it, — James, — you know 

him, — old, but full 
Of force and choler, and firm upon his 

feet, 
And like an oaken stock in winter 

woods, 
O'erflourish'd with the hoary clematis : 
Then added, all in heat : 

" What stuff is this ! 
Old writers push'd the happy season 

back, — 
The more fools they, — we forward : 

dreamers both : 
You most, that in an age, when every 

hour 
Must sweat her sixty minutes to the 

death, 
Live on, God love us, as if the seeds- 
man, rapt 
Upon the teeming harvest, should not 

dip 
His hand into the bag: but well I 

know 



82 



UL YSSES. 



That unto him who works, and feels 

he works, 
This same grand year is ever at the 

doors." 
He spoke ; and, high above, I heard 

them blast 
The steep s'.ate-quarry, and the great 

echo flap 
And buffet round the hills from bluff to 

bluff. 



ULYSSES. 

It little profits that an idle king, 
By this still hearth, among these bar- 
ren crags, 
Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and 

dole 
Unequal laws unto a savage race, 
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and 

know not me. 
I cannot rest from travel : I will drink 
Life to the lees : all times I have en- 

joy'd 
Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both 

with those 
That loved me, and alone ; on shore, 

and when 
Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades 
Vext the dim sea : I am become a name ; 
For always roaming with a hungry heart 
Much have I seen and known ; cities 

of men 
And manners, climates, councils, gov- 
ernments, 
Myself not least, but honor'd of them 

all; 
And drunk delight of battle with my 

peers, 
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy. 
I am a part of all that I have met ; 
Yet all experience is an arch wherethro' 
Gleams that untravell'd world, whose 

margin fades 
Forever and forever when I move. 
How dull it is to pause, to make an end, 
To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use! 
As tho' to breathe were life. Life piled 

on life 
Were all too little, and of one to me 
Little remains : but every hour is saved 
From that eternal silence, something 

more, 



A bringer of new things ; and vile it 

were 
For some three suns to store and hoard 

myself, 
And this gray spirit yearning in desire 
To follow knowledge, like a sinking 

star, 
Beyond the utmost bound of human 

thought. 
This is my son, mine own Telema- 

chus, 
To whom I leave the sceptre and the 

isle — 
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil 
This labor, by slow prudence to make 

mild 
A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees 
Subdue them to the useful and the good- 
Most blameless is he, centred in the 

sphere 
Of common duties, decent not to fail 
In offices of tenderness, and pay 
M eet adoration to my household gods, 
When I am gone. He works his 

work, I mine. 
There lies the port : the vessel puffs 

her sail : 
There gloom the dark broad seas. 

My mariners, 
Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, 

and thought with me — 
That ever with a frolic welcome took 
The thunder and the sunshine, and 

opposed 
Free hearts, free foreheads — you and 

I are old ; 
Old age hath yet his honor and his toil ; 
Death closes all : but something ere 

the end, 
Some work of noble note, may yet be 

done, 
Not unbecoming men that strove with 

Gods. 
The lights begin to twinkle from the 

rocks : 
The long day wanes : the slow moon 

climbs : the deep 
Moans round with many voices 

• Come, my friends, 
'T is not too late to seek a newer world 
Push off, and sitting well in order smite 
The sounding furrows ; for my purpose 

holds 
To sail beyond the sunset, and the bath. 



LOCKSLEY HALL. 83 



Of all the western stars, until I die. 
It may be that the gulfs will wash us 

down : 
It may be we shall touch the Happy 

Isles, 
And see the great Achilles, whom we 

knew, 
rho' much is taken, much abides ; and 

tho' 



We are not now that strength which in 

old days 
Moved earth and heaven ; that which 

we are, we are ; 
One equal temper of heroic hearts, 
Made weak by time and fate, but 

strong in will 
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to 

yield. 



LOCKSLEY HALL. 

Comrades, leave me here a little, while as yet 't is early morn : 

Leave me here, and when you want me, sound upon the bugle horn. 

'T is the place, and all around it, as of old, the curlews call, 

Dreary gleams about the moorland flying over Locksley Hall ; 

Locksley Hall, that in the distance overlooks the sandy tracts, 

And the hollow ocean-ridges roaring into cataracts. 

Many a night from yonder ivied casement, ere I went to rest, 

Did I look on great Orion sloping slowly to the West. 

Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising thro' the mellow shade, 

Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a silver braid. 

Here about the beach I wander'd, nourishing a youth sublime 

With the fairy tales of science, and the long result of Time ; 

When the centuries behind me like a fruitful land reposed ; 

When I clung to all the present for the promise that it closed : 

When I dipt into the future far as human eye could see ; 

Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be. — 

In the Spring a fuller crimson comes upon the robin's breast ; 

In the Spring the wanton lapwing gets himself another crest ; 

In the Spring a livelier iris changes on the burnish' d dove ; 

In the Spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love. 

Then her cheek was pale and thinner than should be for one so young, 

And her eyes on all my motions with a mute observance hung. 

And I said, " My cousin Amy, speak, and speak the truth to me, 

Trust me, cousin, all the current of my being sets to thee." 

On her pallid cheek and forehead came a color and a light, 

As I have seen the rosy red flushing in the northern night. 

.And she turn'd — her bosom shaken with a sudden storm of sighs — 

All the spirit deeply dawning in the dark of hazel eyes — 

Saying, " I have hid my feelings, fearing they should do me wrong " ; 

Saying, " Dost thou love me, cousin ? " weeping, " I have loved thee long." 

Love took up the glass of Time, and turn'd it in his glowing hands ; 

Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands. 

Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords with might ; 

Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, pass'd in music out of sight. 



84 LOCKSLEY HALL. 

Many a morning on the moorland did we hear the copses ring, 
And her whisper throng'd my pulses with the fulness of the Spring. 
Many an evening by the waters did we watch the stately ships, 
And our spirits rush'd together at the touching of the lips. 
O my cousin, shallow-hearted ! O my Amy, mine no more ! 

the dreary, dreary moorland ! O the barren, barren shore ! 
Falser than all fancy fathoms, falser than all songs have sung, 
Puppet to a father's threat, and servile to a shrewish tongue ! 
Is it well to wish thee happy ? — having known me — to decline 
On a range of lower feelings and a narrower heart than mine I 
Yet it shall be : thou shalt lower to his level day by day, 
What is fine within thee growing coarse to sympathize with clay. 
As the husband is, the wife is : thou art mated with a clown, 
And the grossness of his nature will have weight to drag thee down. 
He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its novel force, 
Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse. 
What is this ? his eyes are heavy : think not they are glazed with wiue. 
Go to him : it is thy duty : kiss him : take his hand in thine. 
It may be my lord is weary, that his brain is overwrought ; 
Soothe him with thy finer fancies, touch him with thy lighter thought. 
He will answer to the purpose, easy things to understand — 
Better thou wert dead before me, tho' I slew thee with my hand 1 
Better thou and I were lying, hidden from the heart's disgrace, 
Roll'd in one another's arms, and silent in a last embrace. 
Cursed be the social wants that sin against the strength of youth ! 
Cursed be the social lies that warp us from the living truth ! 
Cursed be the sickly forms that err from honest Nature's rule ! 
Cursed be the gold "that gilds the straiten'd forehead of the fool ! 
Well — 'tis well that I should bluster ! — Hadst thou less unworthy proved — , 
Would to God — for I had loved thee more than ever wife was loved. 
Am I mad, that I should cherish that which bears but bitter fruit ? 

1 will pluck it from my bosom, tho' my heart be at the root. 

Never, tho' my mortal summers to such length of years should come 
As the many-winter' d crow that leads the clanging rockery home. 
Where is comfort ? in division of the records of the mind ? 
Can I part her from herself, and love her, as I knew her, kind? 
I remember one that perish'd : sweetly did she speak and move : 
Such a one do I remember, whom to look at was to love. 
Can I think of her as dead, and love her for the love she bore ? 
No — she never loved me truly : love is love forevermore. 
Comfort? comfort scorn'd of devils ! this is truth the poet sings, 
That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things. 
Drug thy memories, lest thou learn it, lest thy heart be put to proof, 
In the dead unhappy night, and when the rain is on the roof. 
Like a dog, he hunts in dreams, and thou art staring at the wall, 
Where the dying night-lamp flickers, and the shadows rise and fall. 



LOCKS LEY HALL. 85 

Then a hand shall pass before thee, pointing to his drunken sleep, 
To thy widow'd marriage pillows, to the tears that thou wilt weep. 
Thou shalt hear the " Never, never," whisper' d by the phantom years, 
And a song from out the distance in the ringing of thine ears ; 
And an eye shall vex thee, looking ancient kindness on thy pain. 
Turn thee, turn thee on thy pillow : get thee to thy rest again. 
Nay, but Nature brings thee solace ; for a tender voice will cry. 
*T is a purer life than thine ; a lip to drain thy trouble dry. 

Baby lips will laugh me down : my latest rival brings thee rest. 

Baby fingers, waxen touches, press me from the mother's breast. 

O, the child too clothes the father with a dearness not his due. 

Half is thine and half is his : it will be worthy of the two. 

O, I see thee old and formal, fitted to thy petty part, 

With a little hoard of maxims preaching down a daughter's heart. 

"They were dangerous guides the feelings — she herself was not exempt — 
Truly, she herself had suffer'd" — Perish in thy self-contempt ! 
Overlive it — lower yet — be happy ! wherefore should I care? 
I myself must mix with action, lest I wither by despair. 

What is that which I should turn to, lighting upon days like these? 

Every door is barr'd with gold, and opens but to golden keys. 

Every gate is throng'd with suitors, all the markets overflow. 

I have but an angry fancy : what is that which I should do ? 

I had been content to perish, falling on the foeman's ground, 

When the ranks are roll'd in vapor, and the winds are laid with sound. 

But the jingling of the guinea helps the hurt that Honor feels, 

And the nations do but murmur, snarling at each other's heels. 

Can I but relive in sadness ? I will turn that earlier page. 

Hide me from my deep emotion, O thou wondrous Mother- Age ! 

Make me feel the wild pulsation that I felt before the strife. 

When I heard my days before me, and the tumult of my life ; 

Yearning for the large excitement that the coming years would yield, 

Eager-hearted as a boy when first he leaves his father's field, 

And at night along the dusky highway near and nearer drawn, 

Sees in heaven the light of London flaring like a dreary dawn ; 

And his spirit leaps within him to be gone before him then, 

Underneath the light he looks at, in among the throngs of men ; 

Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something new : 

That which they have done but earnest of the things that they shall do ; 

For I dipt into the future, far as human eye could see, 

Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be ; 

Saw the heavens fill with commerce, argosies of magic sails, 

Pilots of the purple twilight, dropping down with costly bales ; 

Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and there rain'd a ghastly dew 

From the nations' airy navies grappling in the central blue ; 

Far along the world-wide whisper of the south-wind rushing warm, 

With the standards of the peoples plunging thro' the thunder-storm; 



86 LOCKS LEY HALL. 

Till the war-drum throbb'd no longer, and the battle-flags were furl'd 

In the Parliament of man, the Federation of the world. 

There the common sense of most shall hold a fretful realm in awe, 

And the kindly earth shall slumber, lapt in universal law. 

So I triumph'd, ere my passion sweeping thro' me left me dry, 

Left me with the palsied heart, and left me with the jaundiced eye ; 

Eye, to which all order festers, all things here are out of joint, 

Science moves, but slowly slowly, creeping on from point to point : 

Slowly comes a hungry people, as a lion, creeping nigher, 

Glares at one that nods and winks behind a slowly-dying fire. 

Yet I doubt not thro' the ages one increasing purpose runs, 

And the thoughts of men are widen'd with the process of the suns. 

What is that to him that reaps not harvest of his youthful joys, 

Tho' the deep heart of existence beat forever like a boy's ? 

Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and I linger on the shore, 

And the individual withers, and the world is more and more. 

Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and he bears a laden breast, 
Full of sad experience, moving toward the stillness of his rest. 
Hark, my merry comrades call me, sounding on the bugle-horn, 
They to whom my foolish passion were a target for their scorn : 
Shall it not be scorn to me to harp on such a moulder'd string? 
I am shamed thro' all my nature to have loved so slight a thing. 
Weakness to be wroth with weakness ! woman's pleasure, woman's pain — 
Nature made them blinder motions bounded in a shallower brain : 
"HWoman is the lesser man, and all thy passions, match'd with mine, 
Arenas moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto wine — //" 

Here at least, where nature sickens, nothing. Ah, for some retreat 

Deep in yonder shining Orient, where my life began to beat ; 

Where in wild Mahratta-battle fell my father evil-starr'd ; — 

I was left a trampled orphan, and a selfish uncle's ward. 

Or to burst all links of habit — there to wander far away, 

On from island unto island at the gateways of the day. 

Larger constellations burning, mellow moons and happy skies. 

Breadths of tropic shade and palms in cluster, knots of Paradise. 

Never comes the trader, never floats an European flag, 

Slides the bird o'er lustrous woodland, swings the trailer from the crag ; 

Droops the heavy-blossom'd bower, hangs the heavy-fruited tree — 

Summer isles of Eden lying in dark-purple spheres of sea. 

There methinks would be enjoyment more than in this march of mind, 

In the steamship, in the railway, in the thoughts that shake mankind. 

There the passions cramp'd no longer shall have scope and breathing-space ; 

I will take some savage woman, she shall rear my dusky race. 

Iron-jointed, supple-sinew'd, they shall dive, and they shall run, 
Catch the wild goat by the hair, and hurl their lances in the sun ; 

Whistle back the parrot's call, and leap the rainbows of the brooks, 
Not with blinded eyesight poring over miserable books — 



GO DIVA. 



87 



Fool, again the dream, the fancy ! but I know my words are wild, 
But I count the gray barbarian lower than the Christian child. 
/, to herd with narrow foreheads, vacant of our glorious gains, 
Like a beast with lower pleasures, like a beast with lower pains ! 

Mated with a squalid savage — what to me were sun or clime ? 

I the'heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of time — 

I that rather held it better men should perish one by one, 

Than that earth should stand at gaze like Joshua's moon in Ajalon ! 

Not in vain the distance beacons. Forward, forward let us range. 

Let the great world spin forever down the ringing grooves of change. 

Thro' the shadow of the globe we sweep into the younger day : 

Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay. 

Mother- Age (for mine I knew not) help me as when life begun : 

Rift the hills, and roll the waters, flash the lightnings, weigh the Sun - 

O, I see the crescent promise of my spirit hath not set. 
Ancient founts of inspiration well thro' all my fancy yet. 

Howsoever these things be, a long farewell to Locksley Hall ! 
Now for me the woods may wither, now for me the roof-tree fall. 
Comes a vapor from the margin, blackening over heath and holt, 
Cramming all the blast before it, in its breast a thunderbolt. 
Let it fall on Locksley Hall, with rain or hail, or fire or snow ; 
For the mighty wind arises, roaring seaward, and I go. 



GODIVA. 

/ waited for the train at Coventry ; 
I hung with grooms and porters on 

the bridge^ 
To watch the three tall spires ; and 

there I shaped 
The citys ancient legend into this : — 
Not only we, the latest seed of 

Time, 
New men, that in the flying of a 

wheel 
Cry down the past, not only we, that 

prate 
Of rights and wrongs, have loved the 

people well, 
And loathed to see them overtax'd ; 

but she 
Did more, and underwent, and over- 
came, 
The woman of a thousand summers 

back, 
Godiva, wife to that grim Earl, who 

ruled 
In Coventry : for when he laid a tax 



Upon his town, and all the mothers 

brought 
Their children, clamoring, " If we pay, 

we starve ! " 
She sought her lord, and found him, 

where he strode 
About the hall, among his dogs, alone, 
His beard a foot before him, and his hair 
A yard behind. She told him of their 

tears, 
And pray'd him, " If they pay this tax, 

they starve." 
Whereat he stared, replying, half- 
amazed, 
" You would not let your little finger 

ache 
For such as these ? " — " But I would 

die," said she. 
He laugh'd, and swore by Peter and 

by Paul : 
Then fillip'd at the diamond in her ear ; 
" O ay, ay, ay, you talk ! " — "Alas ! " 

she said, 
" But prove me what it is I would not 

do." 



88 



THE TWO VOICES. 



And from a heart as rough as Esau's 

hand, 
He answer'd, " Ride you naked thro' 

the town, 
And I repeal it " ; and nodding, as in 

scorn, 
He parted, with great strides among 

his dogs. 
So left alone, the passions of her 

mind, 
As winds from all the compass shift 

and blow, 
Made war upon each other for an hour, 
Till pity won. She sent a herald forth, 
And bade him cry, with sound of trum- 
pet, all 
The hard condition ; but that she would 

loose 
The people : therefore, as they loved 

her well, 
From then till noon no foot should 

pace the street, 
No eye look down, she passing ; but 

that all 
Should keep within, door shut, and 

window barr'd. 
Then fled she to her inmost bower, 

and there 
Unclasp'd the wedded eagles of her 

belt, 
The grim Earl's gift ; but ever at a 

breath 
She linger'd, looking like a summer 

moon 
Half-dipt in cloud : anon she shook 

her head, 
And shower' d the rippled ringlets to 

her knee ; 
Unclad herself in haste ; adown the stair 
Stole on ; and, like a creeping sun- 
beam, slid 
From pillar unto pillar, until she 

reach'd 
The gateway ; there she found her 

palfrey trapt 
In purple blazon'd with armorial gold. 
Then she rode forth, clothed on with 

chastity : 
The deep air listen'd round her as she 

rode, 
And all the low wind hardly breathed 

for fear. 
The little wide-mouth'd heads upon 

the spout 



Had cunning eyes to see : the barking 

cur 
Made her cheek flame : her palfrey's 

footfall shot 
Light horrors thro' her pulses : the 

blind walls 
Were full of chinks and holes ; and 

overhead 
Fantastic gables, crowding, stared : 

but she 
Not less thro' all bore up, till, last, she 

saw 
The white-flower'd elder-thicket from 

the field 
Gleam thro' the Gothic archways in 

the wall. 
Then she rode back, clothed on with 

chastity : 
And one low churl, compact of thank- 
less earth, 
The fatal byword of all years to come, 
Boring a little auger-hole in fear, 
Peep'd — but his eyes, before they had 

their will, 
Were shrivell'd into darkness in his 

head, 
And dropt before him. So the Pow- 
ers, who wait 
On noble deeds, cancell'd a sense 

misused ; 
And she, that knew not, pass'd : and 

all at once, 
With twelve great shocks of sound, 

the shameless noon 
Was clash'd and hammer'd from a 

hundred towers, 
One after one : but even then she 

gain'd 
Her bower ; whence reissuing, robed 

and crown 'd, 
To meet her lord, she took the tax 

away, 
And built herself an everlasting name. 



THE TWO VOICES. 

A still small voice spake unto me, 
" Thou art so full of misery, 
Were it not better not to lie ? " 

Then to the still small voice I said : 
" Let me not cast in endless shade 
What is so wonderfully made." 



THE TWO VOICES. 



89 



To which the voice did urge reply : 

" To-day I saw the dragon-fly 

Come from the wells where he did lie. 

" An inner impulse rent the veil 
Of his old husk : from head to tail 
Came out clear plates of sapphire mail. 

" He dried his wings : like gauze they 

grew : 
Thro' crofts and pastures wet with dew 
A living flash of light he flew." 

I said, " When first the world began, 
Young Nature thro' five cycles ran, 
And in the sixth she moulded man. 

" She gave him mind, the lordliest 
Proportion, and, above the rest, 
Dominion in the head and breast." 

Thereto the silent voice replied : 

" Self-blinded are you by your pride : 

Look up thro' night : the world is wide. 

" This truth within thy mind rehearse, 

That in a boundless universe 

Is boundless better, boundless worse. 

" Think you this mould of hopes and 

fears 
Could find no statelier than his peers 
In yonder hundred million spheres ? " 

It spake, moreover, in my mind : 

" Tho' thou wert scatter'd to the wind, 

Yet is there plenty of the kind." 

Then did my response clearer fall : 
" No compound of this earthly ball 
Is like another, all in all." 

To which he answer'd scofringly : 
" Good soul ! suppose I grant it thee, 
Who '11 weep for thy deficiency ? 

" Or will one beam be less intense, 

When thy peculiar difference 

Is cancel!' d in the world of sense ? " 

I would have said, "Thou canst not 

know," 
But my full heart, that work'd below, 
Rain'd«thro' my sight its overflow. 

Again the voice spake unto me : 
" Thou art so steep'd in misery, 
Surely 'twere better not to be. 



" Thine anguish will not let thee sleep, 
Nor any train of reason keep : 
Thou canst not think, but thou wilt 
weep." 

I said, " The years with change ad- 
vance : 
If I make dark my countenance, 
I shut my life from happier chance. 

" Some turn this sickness yet might 

take, 
Ev'n yet. " But he : " What drug can 

make 
A wither'd palsy cease to shake?" 

I wept, " Tho' I should die, I know 
That all about the thorn will blow 
In tufts of rosy-tinted snow ; 

" And men, thro' novel spheres of 

thought 
Still moving after truth long sought, 
Will learn new things when I am not." 

" Yet," said the secret voice, " some 

time, 
Sooner or later, will gray prime 
Make thy grass hoar with early rime. 

" Not less swift souls that yearn for 

light, 
Rapt after heaven's starry flight, 
Would sweep the tracts of day and 

night. 

" Not less the bee would range her 

cells, 
The furzy prickle fire the dells, 
The foxglove cluster dappled bells." 

I said that " All the years invent ; 
Each month is various to present 
The world with some development. 

" Were this not well, to bide mine hour, 
Tho' watching from a ruin'd tower 
How grows the day of human power ? " 

" The highest-mounted mind," he said, 
" Still sees the sacred morning spread 
The silent summit overhead. 

" Will thirty seasons render plain 
Those lonely lights that still remain, 
Just breaking over land and main ? 



go 



THE TWO VOICES. 



"Or make that morn, from his cold 

crown 
And crystal silence creeping down, 
Flood with full daylight glebe and 

town ? 

" Forerun thy peers, thy time, and let 
Thy feet, millenniums hence, be set 
In midst of knowledge, dream'd not 
yet. 

" Thou hast not gain'd a real height, 
Nor art thou nearer to the light, 
Because the scale is infinite. 

" 'T were better not to breathe or 

speak, 
Than cry for strength, remaining weak, 
And seem to find, but still to seek. 

" Moreover, but to seem to find 
Asks what thou lackest, thought re- 

sign'd, 
A healthy frame, a quiet mind." 

I said, " When I am gone away, 

I He dared not tarry,' men will say, 
Doing dishonor to my clay." 

" This is more vile," he made reply, 
"To breathe and loathe, to live and 

sigh, 
Than once from dread of pain to die. 

" Sick art thou — a divided will 
Still heaping on the fear of ill 
The fear of men, a coward still. 

" Do men love thee ? Art thou so 

bound 
To men, that how thy name may 

sound 
Will vex thee lying underground ? 

" The memory of the wither' d leaf 
In endless time is scarce more brief 
Than of the garner'd Autumn-sheaf. 

II Go, vexed Spirit, sleep in trust ; 
The right ear, that is fill'd with dust, 
Hears little of the false or just." 

" Hard task, to pluck resolve," I cried, 
" From emptiness and the waste wide 
Of that abyss, or scornful pride ! 

" Nay — rather yet that I could raise 
One hope that warm'd me in the days 
While still I yearn'd for human praise. 



" When, wide in soul and bold of 

tongue, 
Among the tents I paused and sung, 
The distant battle flash'd and rung. 

" I sung the joyful Paean clear, 
And, sitting, burnish'd without fear 
The brand, the buckler, and the spear — 

" Waiting to strive a happy strife, 
To war with falsehood to the knife, 
And not to lose the good of life — 

" Some hidden principle to move, 
To put together, part and prove, 
And mete the bounds of hate and 
love — 

" As far as might be, to carve out 
Free space for every human doubt, 
That the whole mind might orb 
about — 

" To search thro' all I felt or saw, 
The springs of life, the depths of awe, 
And reach the law within the law : 

" At least, not rotting like a weed, 
But, having sown some generous seed, 
Fruitful of further thought and deed, 

"To pass, when Life her light with- 
draws, 
Not void of righteous self-applause, 
Nor in a merely selfish cause — 

" In some good cause, not in mine own, 
To perish, wept for, honor'd, known, 
And like a warrior overthrown ; 

"Whose eyes are dim with glorious 

tears, 
When, soil'd with noble dust, he hears 
His country's war-song thrill his ears : 

" Then dying of a mortal stroke, 
What time the foeman's line is broke, 
And all the war is roli'd in smoke." 

"Yea!" said the voice, "thy dream 

was good, 
While thou abodest in the bud. 
It was the stirring of the bloo f d. 

"If Nature put not forth her power 
About the opening of the flower, 
Who is it that could live an hour ? 



THE TWO VOICES. 



9i 



" Then comes the check, the change, 

the fall. 
Pain rises up, old pleasures pall. 
There is one remedy for all. 

" Yet hadst thou, thro' enduring pain, 
Link'd month to month with such a 

chain 
Of knitted purport, all were vain. 

" Thou hadst not between death and 

birth 
Dissolved the riddle of the earth. 
So were thy labor little-worth. 

"That men with knowledge merely 

play'd, 
I told thee — hardly nigher made, 
Tho' scaling slow from grade to grade ; 

" Much less this dreamer, deaf and 

blind, 
Named man, may hope some truth to 

find, 
That bears relation to the mind. 

" For every worm beneath the moon 
Draws different threads, and late and 

soon 
Spins, toiling out his own cocoon. 

" Cry, faint not : either Truth is born 
Beyond the polar gleam forlorn, 
Or in the gateways of the morn. 

" Cry, faint not, climb : the summits 

slope 
Beyond the furthest flights of hope, 
Wrapt in dense cloud from base to 

cope. 

" Sometimes a little corner shines, 

As over rainy mist inclines 

A gleaming crag with belts of pines. 

" I will go forward, say est thou, 
I shall not fail to find her now. 
Look up, the fold is on her brow. 

" If straight thy track, or if oblique, 
Thou know'st not. Shadows thou dost 

strike, 
Embracing cloud, Ixion-like ; 

" And owning but a little more 
Than beasts, abidest lame and poor, 
Calling thyself a little lower 



" Than angels. Cease to wail and 

brawl ! 
Why inch by inch to darkness crawl ? 
There is one remedy for all." 

" O dull, one-sided voice," said I, 
" Wilt thou make everything a lie, 
To flatter me that I may die ? 

" I know that age to age succeeds, 
Blowing a noise of tongues and deeds, 
A dust of systems and of creeds. 

" I cannot hide that some have striven, 
Achieving calm, to whom was given 
The joy that mixes man with Heaven : 

" Who, rowing hard against the stream, 
Saw distant gates of Eden gleam, 
And did not dream it was a dream ; 

" But heard, by secret transport led, 
Ev'n in the charnels of the dead, 
The murmur of the fountain-head — 

" Which did accomplish their desire, 
Bore and forbore, and did not tire, 
Like Stephen, an una x uenched fire. 

" He heeded not reviling tones, 
Nor sold his heart to idle moans, 
Tho' cursed and scorn'd, and bruised 
with stones : 

" But looking upward, full of grace, 
He pray'd, and from a happy place 
God's glory smote him on the face." 

The sullen answer slid betwixt : 

" Not that the grounds of hope were 

fix'd, 
The elements were kindlier mix'd." 

I said, " I toil beneath the curse, 
But, knowing not the universe, 
I fear to slide from bad to worse. 

" And that, in seeking to undo 
One riddle, and to find the true, 
I knit a hundred others new : 

" Or that this anguish fleeting hence, 
Unmanacled from bonds of sense, 
Be fix'd and froz'n to permanence : 

" For I. go, weak from suffering here ; 
Naked I go, and void of cheer : 
What is it that I may not fear? " 



9 2 



THE TWO VOICES. 



" Consider well," the voice replied, 
" His face, that two hours since hath 

died ; 
Wilt thou find passion, pain, or pride ? 

" Will he obey when one commands ? 
Or answer should one press his hands ? 
He answers not, nor understands. 

" His palms are folded on his breast : 
There is no other thing express'd 
But long disquiet merged in rest. 

" His lips are very mild and meek : 
Tho' one should smite him on the 

cheek, 
And on the mouth, he will not speak. 

" His little daughter, whose sweet face 
He kiss'd, taking his last embrace, 
Becomes dishonor to her race — 

" His sons grow up that bear his name, 
Some grow to honor, some to shame, — 
But he is chill to praise or blame. 

" He will not hear the north-wind rave, 
Nor, moaning, household shelter crave 
From winter rains that beat his grave. 

" High up the vapors fold and swim : 
About him broods the twilight dim : 
The place he knew forgetteth him." 

" If all be dark, vague voice," I said, 
" These things are wrapt in doubt and 

dread, 
Nor canst thou show the dead are dead. 

" The sap dries up : the plant declines. 
A deeper tale my heart divines. 
Know I not Death ? the outward signs ? 

" I found him when my years were few ; 
A shadow on the graves I knew, 
And darkness in the village yew. 

" From grave to grave the shadow 

crept : 
In her still place the morning wept : 
Touch'd by his feet the daisy slept. 

" The simple senses crown'd his head : 
1 Omega ! thou art Lord,' they said, 
' We find no motion in the dead.' 

" Why, if man rot in dreamless ease, 
Should that plain fact, as taught by 

these, 
Not make him sure that he shall cease ? 



" Who forged that other influence, 

That heat of inward evidence, 

By which he doubts against the sense ? 

" He owns the fatal gift of eyes, 
That read his spirit blindly wise, 
Not simple as a thing that dies. 

" Here sits he shaping wings to fly : 
His heart forebodes a mystery : 
He names the name Eternity. 

" That type of Perfect in his mind 
In Nature can he nowhere find. 
He sows himself on every wind. 

" He seems to hear a Heavenly Friend, 
And thro' thick veils to apprehend 
A labor working to an end. 

" The end and the beginning vex 
His reason : many things perplex, 
With motions, checks, and counter- 
checks. 

" He knows a baseness in his blood 
At such strange war with something 

good, 
He may not do the thing he would. 

" Heaven opens inward, chasms yawn, 
Vast images in glimmering dawn, 
Half-shown, are broken and withdrawn. 

"Ah ! sure within him and without, 
Could his dark wisdom find it out, 
There must be answer to his doubt. 

" But thou canst answer not again. 
With thine own weapon art thou slain, 
Or thou wilt answer but in vain. 

" The doubt would rest, ' I dare not 

solve. 
In the same circle we revolve. 
Assurance only breeds resolve." 

As when a billow, blown against, 
Falls back, the voice with which I 

fenced 
A little ceased, but recommenced : 

" Where wert thou when thy father 

play'd 
In his free field, and pastime made, 
A merry boy in sun and shade ? 

" A merry boy they called him then. 
He sat upon the knees of men 
In days that never come again. 



THE TWO VOICES. 



93 



" Before the little ducts began 
To feed thy bones with lime, and ran 
Their course, till thou wert also man : 
" Who took a wife, who rear'd his race, 
Whose wrinkles gather'd on his face, 
Whose troubles number with his days : 
" A life of nothings, nothing- worth, 
From that first nothing ere his birth 
To that last nothing under earth ! " 

" These words," I said, " are like the 

rest, 
No certain clearness, but at best 
A vague suspicion of the breast : 
" But if I grant, thou might'st defend 
The thesis which thy words intend — 
That to begin implies to end ; 

" Yet how should I for certain hold, 
Because my memory is so cold, 
That I first was in human mould ? 

" I cannot make this matter plain, 
But I would shoot, howe'er in vain, 
A random arrow from the brain. 

" It may be that no life is found, 
Which only to one engine bound 
Falls off, but cycles always round. 

" As old mythologies relate, 

Some draught of Lethe might await 

The slipping thro' from state to state. 

" As here we find in trances, men 
Forget the dream that happens then, 
Until they fall in trance again. 

" So might we, if our state were such 

As one before, remember much, 

For those two likes might meet and 

touch. 
" But, if I lapsed from nobler place, 
Soma legend of a fallen race 
Alone might hint of my disgrace ; 

" Some vague emotion of delight 

In gazing up an Alpine height, 

Some yearning toward the lamps of 

night. 
" Or if thro' lower lives I came — 
Tho' all experience past became 
Consolidate in mind and frame — 

" I might forget my weaker lot ; 
For is not our first year forgot ? 
The haunts of memory echo not. 



"And men, whose reason long was 

blind, 
From cells of madness unconfined, 
Oft lose whole years of darker mind. 

" Much more, if first I floated free, 
As naked essence, must I be 
Incompetent of memory : 

" For memory dealing but with time, 
And he with matter, could she climb 
Beyond her own material prime ? 

" Moreover, something is or seems, 
That touches me with mystic gleams, 
Like glimpses of forgotten dreams — 

" Of something felt, like something 

here ; 
Of something done, I know not where ; 
Such as no language may declare." 

The still voice laugh'd. " I talk," said 

he, 
" Not with thy dreams. Suffice it thee 
Thy pain is a reality." 

" But thou," said I, " hast miss'd thy 

mark, 
Who sought'st to wreck my mortal ark, 
By making all the horizon dark. 
" Why not set forth, if I should do 
This rashness, that which might ensue 
With this old soul in organs new ? 
" Whatever crazy sorrow saith, 
No life that breathes with human 

breath 
Has ever truly long'd for death. 

" 'T is life, whereof our nerves are 
scant, 

life, not death, for which we pant ; 
More life, and fuller, that I want." 

1 ceased, and sat as one forlorn. 
Then said the voice, in quiet scorn : 
" Behold, it is the Sabbath morn." 

And I arose, and I released 

The casement, and the light increased 

With freshness in the dawning east. 

Like soften'd airs that blowing steal, 
When meres begin to uncongeal, 
The sweet church bells began to peal. 

On to God's house the people prest : 
Passing the place where each must rest, 
Each enter' d like a welcome guest. 



94 



THE DAY-DREAM. 






One walk'd between his wife and child, 
With measur'd footfall firm and mild, 
And now and then he gravely smiled. 

The prudent partner of his blood 
Lean'd on him, faithful, gentle, good, 
Wearing the rose of womanhood. 

And in their double love secure, 
The little maiden walk'd demure, 
Pacing with downward eyelids pure. 

These three made unity so sweet, 
My frozen heart began to beat, 
Remembering its ancient heat. 

I blest them, and they wander'd on : 
I spoke, but answer came there none : 
The dull and bitter voice was gone. 

A second voice was at mine ear, 

A little whisper silver-clear, 

A murmur, " Be of better cheer." 

As from some blissful neighborhood, 

A notice faintly understood, 

" I see the end, and know the good." 

A little hint to solace woe, 

A hint, a whisper breathing low, 

" I may not speak of what I know." 

Like an ^olian harp that wakes 

No certain air, but overtakes 

Far thought with music that it makes : 

Such seem'd the whisper at my side : 
" What is it thou knowest, sweet 

voice ? " I cried. 
" A hidden hope," the voice replied : 

So heavenly-toned, that in that hour 
From out my sullen heart a power 
Broke, like the rainbow from the 
shower, 

To feel, altho' no tongue can prove, 
That every cloud, that spreads above 
And veileth love, itself is love. 

And forth into the fields I went, 
And Nature's living motion lent 
The pulse of hope to discontent. 

I wonder'd at the bounteous hours, 
The slow result of winter showers : 
You scarce could see the grass for 
flowers. 



I wonder'd, while I paced along : 
The woods were fill'd so full with song, 
There seem'd no room for sense of 
wrong. 

So variously seem'd all things wrought, 
I marvell'd how the mind was brought 
To anchor by one gloomy thought ; 

And wherefore rather I made choice 
To commune with that barren voice, 
Than him that said, " Rejoice ! re- 
joice ! " 



THE DAY-DREAM. 

PROLOGUE. 

O Lady Flora, let me speak : 

A pleasant hour has past away 
While, dreaming on your damask 
cheek, 

The dewy sister-eyelids lay. 
As by the lattice you reclined, 

I went thro' many wayward moods 
To see you dreaming — and, behind, 

A summer crisp with shining woods. 
And I too dream 'd, until at last 

Across my fancy, brooding warm, 
The reflex of a legend past, 

And loosely settled into form. 
And would you have the thought I had, 

And see the vision that I saw, 
Then take the broidery-frame, and add 

A crimson to the quaint Macaw, 
And I will tell it. Turn your face, 

Nor look with that too-earnest eye — 
The rhymes are dazzled from their 
place, 

And order'd words asunder fly. 



THE SLEEPING PALACE. 

i. 

The varying year with blade and sheaf 

Clothes and reclothes the happy 
plains ; 
Here rests the sap within the leaf, 

Here stays the blood along the veins. 
Faint shadows, vapors lightly curl'd, 

Faint murmurs from the meadows 
come, 
Like hints and echoes of the world 

To spirits folded in the womb. 



THE DAY-DREAM. 



95 



Soft lustre bathes the range of urns 

On every slanting terrace-lawn. 
The fountain to his place returns, 

Deep in the garden lake withdrawn. 
Here droops the banner on the tower, 

On the hall-hearths the festal fires, 
The peacock in his laurel bower, 

The parrot in his gilded wires. 



Roof-haunting martins warm their 
eggs : 

In these, in those the life is stay'd. 
The mantles from the golden pegs 

Droop sleepily : no sound is made, 
Not even of a gnat that sings. 

More like a picture seemeth all 
Than those old portraits of old kings, 

That watch the sleepers from the 
wall. 

4- 
Here sits the butler with a flask 

Between his knees, half-drain'd ; and 
there 
The wrinkled steward at his task^ 

The maid-of-honor blooming fair: 
The page has caught her hand in his : 

Her lips are sever'd as to speak : 
His own are pouted to a kiss : ' 

The blush is fix'd upon her cheek. 



Till all the hundred summers pass, 

The beams, that through the oriel 
shine, 
Make prisms in every carven glass, 

And beaker brimm'd with noble 
wine. 
Each baron at the banquet sleeps, 

Grave faces gather' d in a ring. 
His state the king reposing keeps. 

He must have been a jovial king. 

6. 

All round a hedge upshoots, and shows 

At distance like a little wood ; 
Thorns, ivies, woodbine, misletoes, 
And grapes with bunches red as 
blood ; 
All creeping plants, a wall of green 
Close -matted, bur and brake and 
brier, 



And glimpsing over these, just seen, 
High up, the topmost palace-spire. 

7- 

When will the hundred summers die, 

And thought and time be born again, 
And newer knowledge, drawing nigh, 

Bring truth that sways the soul of 
men ? 
Here all things in their place remain, 

As all were order'd, ages since. 
Come, Care and Pleasure, Hope and 
Pain, 

And bring the fated fairy Prince. 



THE SLEEPING BEAUTY. 



Year after year unto her feet, 

.She lying on her couch alone, 
Across the purpled coverlet, 
The maiden's jet-black hair has 
grown, 
On either side her tranced form 

Forth streaming from a braid of 
pearl : 
The slumbrous light is rich and warm, 
And moves not on the rounded curl. 



The silk star-broider'd coverlid 

Unto her limbs itself doth mould 
Languidly ever ; and, amid 

Her full black ringlets downward 
roll'd, 
Glows forth each softly-shadow'd arm 

With bracelets of the diamond bright: 
Her constant beauty doth inform 

Stillness with love, and day with light. 

3- 
She sleeps : her breathings are not 
heard 
In palace chambers far apart. 
The fragrant tresses are not stirr'd 
That lie upon her charmed heart. 
She sleeps : on either hand upswells 

The gold-fringed pillow lightly prest : 
She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever 
dwells . 
A perfect form in perfect rest. 



96 



THE DAY-DREAM. 



THE ARRIVAL. 

All precious things, discover'd late, 

To those that seek them issue forth ; 
For love in sequel works with fate, 

And draws the veil from hidden 
worth. 
He travels far from other skies — 

His mantle glitters on the recks — 
A fairy Prince, with joyful eyes, 

And lighter-footed than the fox. 

2. 

The bodies and the bones of those 

That strove in other days to pass, 
Are wither' d in the thorny close, 

Or'scatter'd blanching on the grass. 
He gazes on the silent dead : 

" They perish'd in their daring 
deeds." 
This proverb flashes thro' his head, 

" The many fail : the one succeeds." 

3- 

He comes, scarce knowing what he 
seeks : 
He breaks the hedge : he enters 
there : 
The color flies into his cheeks : 

He trusts to light on something 
fair; 
For all his life the charm did talk 
About his path, and hover near 
With words of promise in his walk, 
And whisper'd voices at his ear. 

4- 
More close and close his footsteps 
wind ; 
The Magic Music in his heart 
Beats quick and quicker, till he find 

The quiet chamber far apart. 
His spirit flutters like a lark, 
He stoops — to kiss her — on his 
knee. 
" Love, if thy tresses be so dark, 
How dark those hidden eyes must 
be!" 



THE REVIVAL. 

A touch, a kiss ! the charm was snapt. 
There rose a noise of striking clocks, 



And feet that ran, and doors that clapt, 
And barking dogs, and crowing 
cocks ; 

A fuller light illumined all, 

A breeze thro' all the garden swept, 

A sudden hubbub shook the hall, 
And sixty feet the fountain leapt. 

2. 

The hedge broke in, the banner blew, 
The butler drank, the steward 
scrawl 'd, 
The fire shot up, the martin flew, 
The parrot scream'd, the peacock 
squall 'd, 
The maid and page renew'd their 
strife, 
The palace bang'd, and buzz'd, and 
clackt, 
And all the long-pent stream of life 
Dash'd downward in a cataract. 



And last with these the king awoke, 

And in his chair himself uprear'd, 
And yawn'd, and rubb'd his face, and 
spoke, 

" By holy rood, a royal beard ! 
How say you ? we have slept, my lords. 

My beard has grown into my lap." 
The barons swore, with many words, 

'Twas but an after-dinner's nap. 

4- 
" Pardy," return'd the king, " but still 

My joints are something stiff or so. 
My lord, and shall we pass the bill 

I mention'd half an hour ago?" 
The chancellor, sedate and vain, 

In courteous words return'd reply : 
But dallied with his golden chain, 

And, smiling, put the question by. 



THE DEPARTURE. 



And on her lover's arm she leant, 

And round her waist she felt it fold, 
And far across the hills they went 

In that new world which is the old : 
Across the hills, and far away 

Beyond their utmost purple rim, 
And deep into the dying day 

The happy princess follow'd him. 



THE DAY-DREAM. 



97 



" I 'd sleep another hundred years, 

O love, for such another kiss " ; 
" O wake forever, love," she hears, 

" O love, 't was such as this and this." 
And o'er them many a sliding star, 

And many a merry wind was borne, 
And, stream'd thro' many a golden bar, 

The twilight melted into morn. 

3- 

" O eyes long laid in happy sleep ! " 

" O happy sleep, that lightly fled ! " 
" O happy kiss, that woke thy sleep ! " 

" O love, thy kiss would wake the 
dead ! " 
And o'er them many a flowing range 

Of vapor buoy'd the crescent-bark, 
And, rapt thro' many a rosy change, 

The twilight died into the dark. 

4- 

" A hundred summers ! can it be ? 

And whither goest thou, tell me 
where ? " 
" O seek my father's court with me, 

For there are greater wonders there." 
And o'er the hills, and far away 

Beyond their utmost purple rim, 
Beyond the night, across the day, 

Thro' all the world she follow'd him. 



So, Lady Flora, take my lay, 

And if you find no moral there, 
Go, look in any glass and say, 

What moral is in being fair. 
O, to what uses shall we put 

The wildweed-flower that simply 
blows ? 
And is there any moral shut 

Within the bosom of the rose ? 



But any man that walks the mead, 

In bud or blade, or bloom, may find, 
According as his humors lead, 

A meaning suited to his mind. 
And liberal applications lie 

In Art like Nature, dearest friend ; 
So 't were to cramp its use, if I 

Should hook it to some useful end. 



L'ENVOI. 
1. 

You shake your head. A random string 

Your finer female sense offends. 
Well — were it not a pleasant thing 

To fall asleep with all one's friends ; 
To pass with all our social ties 

To silence from the paths of men ; 
And every hundred years to rise 

And learn the world, and sleep again ; 
To sleep thro' terms of mighty wars, 

And wake on science grown to more, 
On secrets of the brain, the stars, 

As wild as aught of fairy lore ; 
And all that else the years will show, 

The Poet-forms of stronger hours, 
The vast Republics that may grow, 

The Federations and the Powers ; 
Titanic forces taking birth 

In divers seasons, divers climes ; 
For we are Ancients of the earth, 

And in the morning of the times. 

2. 

So sleeping, so aroused from sleep 
Thro' sunny decades new and strange, 

Or gay quinquenniads would we reap 
The flower and quintessence of 
change. 

3- 

Ah, yet would I — and would I might ! 

So much your eyes my fancy take — 
Be still the first to leap to light 

That I might kiss those eyes awake ! 
For, am I right or am I wrong, 

To choose your own you did not 
care; 
You 'd have my moral from the song, 

And I will take my pleasure there : 
And, am I right or am I wrong, 

My fancy, ranging thro' and thro', 
To search a meaning for the song, 

Perforce will still revert to you ; 
Nor finds a closer truth than this ' 

All-graceful head, so richly curl'd, 
And evermore a costly kiss 

The prelude to some brighter world. 



For since the time when Adam first 
Embraced his Eve in happy hour, 

And every bird of Eden burst 
In carol, every bud to flower, 



9» 



A MP H ION. 



What eyes, like thine, have waken'd 
hopes ? 

What lips, like thine, so sweetly 
join'd? 
Where on the double rosebud droops 

The fulness of the pensive mind ; 
Which all too dearly self-involved, 

Yet sleeps a dreamless sleep to me ; 
A sleep by kisses undissolved, 

That lets thee neither hear nor see : 
But break it. In the name of wife, 

And in the rights that name may give, 
Are clasp'd the moral of thy life, 

And that for which I care to live. 



EPILOGUE. 

So, Lady Flora, take my lay, 

And, if you find a meaning there, 
O whisper to your glass, and say, 

"What wonder, if he thinks me fair? "> 
What wonder I was all unwise, 

To shape the song for your delight, 
Like long-tail'd birds of Paradise, 

That float thro' Heaven, and cannot 
light? 
Or old-world trains, upheld at court 

By Cupid-boys of blooming hue — 
But take it — earnest wed with sport, 

And either sacred unto you. 



AMPHION. 

My father left a park to me, 

But it is wild and barren, 
A garden too with scarce a tree 

And waster than a warren : 
Yet say the neighboi-s when they call, 

It is not bad but good land, 
And in it is the germ of all 

That grows within the woodland. 

O had I lived when song was great 

In days of old Amphion, 
And ta'en my fiddle to the gate, 

Nor cared for seed or scion ! 
And had I lived when song was great, 

And legs of trees were limber, 
And ta'en my fiddle to the gate, 

And fiddled in the timber I. 

'T is said he had a tuneful tongue, 
Such happy intonation, 



Wherever he sat down and sung 
He left a small plantation ; 

Wherever in a lonely grove 
He set up his forlorn pipes, 

The gouty oak began to move, 
And flounder into hornpipes. 

The mountain stirr'd its bushy crown, 

And, as tradition teaches, 
Young ashes pirouetted down 

Coquetting with young beeches ; 
And briony-vine and ivy-wreath 

Ran forward to his rhyming, 
And from the valleys underneath 

Came little copses climbing. 

The birch-tree swang her fragrant hair, 

The bramble cast her berry, 
The gin within the juniper 

Began to make him merry, 
The poplars, in long order due, 

With cypress promenaded, 
The shock-head willows two and two 

By rivers gallopaded. 

Came wet- shot alder from the wave, 

Came yews, a dismal coterie ; 
Each pluck'd his one foot from the 
grave, 

Poussetting with a sloe-tree : 
Old elms came breaking from the vine, 

The vine stream'd out to follow, 
And, sweating rosin, plump'd the pine 

From many a cloudy hollow. 

And was n't it a sight to see, 

When, ere his song was ended, 
Like some great landslip, tree by tree, 

The country-side descended ; 
And shepherds from the mountain- 
eaves w, 

Look'd down, half-pleased, nalf- 
frighten'd, 
As dash'd about the drunken leaves 

The random sunshine lighten'd 1 

O, nature first was fresh to men, 

And wanton without measure ; 
So youthful and so flexile then, 

You moved her at your pleasure. 
Twang out, my fiddle ! shake the twigs ! 

And make her dance attendance ; 
Blow, flute, and stir the stiff-set sprigs, 

And scirrhous roots a*id tendons. 



ST. AGNES. — SIR GALAHAD. 



99 



'T is vain ! in such a brassy age 

I could not move a thistle ; 
The very sparrows in the hedge 

Scarce answer to my whistle ; 
Or at the most, when three-parts-sick 

With strumming and with scraping, 
A jackass heehaws from the rick, 

The passive oxen gaping. 

But what is that I hear ? a sound 
Like sleepy counsel pleading : 

Lord ! — 't is in my neighbor's 

ground, 
The modern Muses reading. 
They read Botanic Treatises, 

And Works on Gardening through 
there, 
And Methods of transplanting trees, 
To look as if they grew there. 

The wither'd Misses ! how they prose 

O'er books of travell'd seamen, 
And show you slips of all that grows 

From England to Van Diemen. 
They read in arbors dipt and cut, 

And alleys, faded places, 
By squares of tropic summer shut 

And warm'd in crystal cases. 

But these, tho' fed with careful dirt, 

Are neither green nor sappy ; 
Half-conscious of the garden -squirt, 

The spindlings look unhappy. 
Better to me the meanest weed 

That blows upon its mountain, 
The vilest herb that runs to seed 

Beside its native fountain. 

And I must work thro' months of toil, 

And years of cultivation, 
Upon my proper patch of soil 

To grow my own plantation. 

1 '11 take the showers as they fall, 
I will not vex my bosom : 

Enough if at the end of all 
A little garden blossom. 



ST. AGNES. 

Deep on the convent-roof the snows 
Are sparkling to the moon : 

My breath to heaven like vapor goes : 
May my soul follow soon 1 



The shadows of the convent-towers 

Slant down the snowy sward, 
Still creeping with the creeping hours 

THat lead me to my Lord : 
Make Thou my spirit pure and clear 

As are the frosty skies, 
Or this first snowdrop of the year 

That in my bosom lies. 

As these white robes are soiled and 
dark, 

To yonder shining ground ; 
As this pale taper's earthly spark, 

To yonder argent round ; 
So shows my soul before the Lamb, 

My spirit before Thee ; 
So in mine earthly house I am, 

To that I hope to be. 
Break up the heavens, O Lord ! and far, 

Thro' all yon starlight keen, 
Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star, 

In raiment white and clean. 

He lifts me to the golden doors ; 

The flashes come and go ; 
All heaven bursts her starry floors, 

And strows her lights below, 
And deepens on and up ! the gates 

Roll back, and far within 
For me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits, 

To make me pure of sin. 
The sabbaths of Eternity, 

One sabbath deep and wide — 
A light upon the shining sea — 

The Bridegroom with his bride ! 



SIR GALAHAD. 

My good blade carves the casques of 
men, 

My tough lance thrusteth sure, 
My strength is as the strength of ten, 

Because my heart is pure. 
The shattering trumpet shrilleth high, 

The hard brands shiver on the steel, 
The splinter'd spear-shafts crack and 
fly, 

The horse and rider reel : 
They reel, they roll in clanging lists, 

And when the tide of combat stands, 
Perfume and flowers fall in showers, 

That lightly rain from ladies' hands. 



EDWARD GRAY. 



How sweet are looks that ladies bend 

O.n whom their favors fall ! 
For them I battle till the end, 

To save from shame and thrall : 
But all my heart is drawn above, 

My knees are bow'd in crypt and 
shrine : 
I never felt the kiss of love, 

Nor maiden's hand in mine. 
More bounteous aspects on me beam, 

Me mightier transports move and 
thrill ; 
So keep I fair thro' faith and prayer 

A virgin heart in work and will. 

When down the stormy crescent goes, 

A light before me swims, 
Between dark stems the forest glows, 

I hear a noise of hymns : 
Then by some secret shrine I ride ; 

I hear a voice, but none are there ; 
The stalls are void, the doors are 
wide, 

The tapers burning fair. 
Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth, 

The silver vessels sparkle clean, 
The shrill bell rings, the censer swings, 

And solemn chants resound between. 

Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres 

I find a magic bark ; 
I leap on board : no helmsman steers : 

I float till all is dark. 
A gentle sound, an awful light 

Three angels bear the holy Grail : 
"With folded feet, in stoles of white, 

On sleeping wings they sail. 
Ah, blessed vision ! blood of God ! 

My spirit beats her mortal bars, 
As down dark tides the glory slides, 

And star-like mingles with the stars. 

When on my goodly charger borne 

Thro' dreaming towns I go, 
The cock crows ere the Christmas morn, 

The streets are dumb with snow. 
The tempest crackles on the leads, 

And, ringing, spins from brand and 
mail ; 
But o'er the dark a glory spreads, 

And gilds the driving hail. 
I leave the plain, I climb the height ; 

No branchy thicket shelter yields ; 
But blessed forms in whistling storms 

Fly o'er waste fens and windy fields. 



A maiden knight — to me is given 

Such hope, I know not fear ; 
I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven 

That often meet me here. 
I muse on joy that will not cease, 

Pure spaces clothed in living beams, 
Pure lilies of eternal peace, 

Whose odors haunt my dreams ; 
And, stricken by an angel's hand, 

This mortal armor that I wear, 
This weight and size, this heart and 
eyes, 

Are touch'd, are turn'd to finest air. 

The clouds are broken in the sky, 

And thro' the mountain-walls 
A rolling organ-harmony 

Swells up, and shakes and falls. 
Then move the trees, the copses nod, 

Wings flutter, voices hover clear : 
" O just and faithful knight of God ! 

Ride on ! the prize is near." 
So pass I hostel, hall, and grange ; 

By bridge and ford, by park and 
pale, 
All-arm'd I ride, whate'er betide, 

Until I find the holy Grail. 



EDWARD GRAY. 

Sweet Emma Moreland of yonder 
town 
Met me walking on yonder way, 
"And have you lost your heart? " she 
said : 
" And are you married yet, Edward 
Gray?" 

Sweet Emma Moreland spoke to me : 
Bitterly weeping I turn'd away : 

" Sweet Emma Moreland, love no more 
Can touch the heart of Edward Gray. 

" Ellen Adair she loved me well, 
Against her father's and mother's 
will : 

To-day I sat for an hour and wept, 
By Ellen's grave, on the windy hill. 

" Shy she was, and I thought her cold ; 

Thought her proud, and fled over the 
sea ; 
Fill'd I was with folly and spite, 

When Ellen Adair was dying for me. 



LYRICAL MONOLOGUE. 



" Cruel, cruel the words I said ! 

Cruelly came they back to-day : 
* You 're too slight and fickle,' I said, 

'To trouble the heart of Edward 
Gray.' 

" There I put my face in the grass — 
Whisper'd, ' Listen to my despair : 

I repent me of all I did : 

Speak a little, Ellen Adair ! ' 

" Then I took a pencil, and wrote 
On the mossy stone, as I lay, 

' Here lies the body of Ellen Adair ; 
And here the heart of Edward Gray ! ' 

" Love may come, and love may go, 
And fly, like a bird, from tree to 
tree : 

But I will love no more, no more, 
Till Ellen Adair come back to me. 

" Bitterly wept I over the stone : 
Bitterly weeping I turn'd away : 

There lies the body of Ellen Adair ! 
And there the heart of Edward 
Gray ! " 



WILL WATERPROOF'S LYRI- 
CAL MONOLOGUE. 

MADE AT THE COCK. 

plump head- waiter at The Cock, 
To which I most resort, 

How goes the time ? 'T is five o'clock. 

Go fetch a pint of port : 
But let it not be such as that 

You set before chance-comers, 
But such whose father-grape grew fat 

On Lusitanian summers. 

No vain libation to the Muse, 

But may she still be kind, 
And whisper lovely words, and use 

Her influence on the mind, 
To make me write my random rhymes, 

Ere they be half-forgotten ; 
Nor add and alter, many times, 

Till all be ripe and rotten. 

1 pledge her, and she comes and dips 
Her laurel in the wine, 



And lays it thrice upon my lips, 
These favor'd lips* of mine ; 

Until the charm have power to make 
New lifeblood warm the bosom, 

And barren commonplaces break 
In full and kindly blossom. 

I pledge her silent at the board ; 

Her gradual fingers steal 
And touch upon the master-chord 

Of all I felt and feel. 
Old wishes, ghosts of broken plans, 

And phantom hopes assemble ; 
And that child's heart within the man's 

Begins to move and tremble. 

Thro' many an hour of summer suns 

By many pleasant ways, 
Against its fountain upward runs 

The current of my days : 
I kiss the lips I once have kiss'd ; 

The gas-light wavers dimmer ; 
And softly, thro' a vinous mist, 

My college friendships glimmer. 

I grow in worth, and wit, and sense, 

Unboding critic-pen, 
Or that eternal want of pence, 

Which vexes public men, 
Who hold their hands to all, and cry 

For that which all deny them, — 
Who sweep the crossings, wet or dry, 

And all the world go by them. 

Ah yet, tho' all the world forsake, 

Tho' fortune clip my wings, 
I will not cramp my heart, nor take 

Half-views of men and things. 
Let Whig and Tory stir their blood ; 

There must be stormy weather ; 
But for some true result of good 

All parties work together. 

Let there be thistles, there are grapes ; 

If old things, there are new ; 
Ten thousand broken lights and shapes, 

Yet glimpses of the true. 
Let raffs be rife in prose and rhyme, 

We lack not rhymes and reasons, 
As on this whirligig of Time 

We circle with the seasons. 

This earth is rich in man and maid ; 
With fair horizons bound ! 



LYRICAL MONOLOGUE. 



This whole wide earth of light and 
shade 

Comes out, a perfect round. 
High over roaring Temple-bar, 

And, set in Heaven's third story, 
I look at all things as they are, 

But thro' a kind of glory. 



Head-waiter, honor'd by the guest 

Half-mused, or reeling-ripe, 
The pint, you brought me, was the 
best 

That ever came from pipe. 
But tho' the port surpasses praise, 

My nerves have dealt with stiffer. 
Is there some magic in the place ? 

Or do my peptics differ ? 

For since I came to live and learn, 

No pint of white or red 
Had ever half the power to turn 

This wheel within my head, 
Which bears a season'd brain about, 

Un subject to confusion, 
Tho' soak'd and saturate, out and out, 

Thro' every convolution. 

For I am of a numerous house, 

With many kinsmen gay, 
Where long and largely we carouse, 

As who shall say me nay : 
Each month, a birthday coming on, 

We drink defying trouble, 
Or sometimes two would meet in one, 

And then we drank it double ; 

Whether the vintage, yet unkept, 

Had relish fiery-new, 
Or, elbow-deep in sawdust, slept, 

As old as Waterloo ; 
Or stow'd (when classic Canning died) 

In musty bins and chambers, 
Had cast upon its crusty side 

The gloom of ten Decembers. 

The Muse, the jolly. Muse, it is ! 

She answer'd to my call, 
She changes with that mood or this, 

Is all-in-all to all : 
She lit the spark within my throat, 

To make my blood run quicker, 
Used all her fiery will, and smote 

Her life into the liquor. 



And hence this halo lives about 

The waiter's hands, that reach 
To each his perfect pint of stout, 

His proper chop to each. 
He looks not like the common breed 

That with the napkin dally ; 
I think he came like Ganymede, 

From some delightful valiey. 

The Cock was of a larger egg 

Than modern poultry drop, 
Stept forward on a firmer leg, 

And cramm'd a plumper crop ; 
Upon an ampler dunghill trod, 

Crow'd lustier late and early, 
Sipt wine from silver, praising God, 

And raked in golden barley. 

A private life was all his joy, 

Till in a court he saw 
A something-pottle-bodied boy, 

That knuckled at the taw ; 
He stoop'd and clutch'd him, fair and 
good, 

Flew over roof and casement : 
His brothers of the weather stood 

Stock-still for sheer amazement. 

But he, by farmstead, thorpe, and spire, 

And follow'd with acclaims, 
A sign to many a staring shire, 

Came crowing over Thames. 
Right down by smoky Paul's they 
bore, 

Till, where the street grows straiter, 
One fix'd forever at the door, 

And one became head-waiter. 



But whither would my fancy go ? 

How out of place she makes 
The violet of a legend blow 

Among the chops and steaks ! 
'T is but a steward of the can, 

One shade more plump than com- 
mon ; 
As just and mere a serving-man 

As any, born of woman. 

I ranged too high : what draws me 
down 

Into the common day ? 
Is it the weight of that half-crown, 

Which I shall have to pay ? 



LYRICAL MONOLOGUE. 



103 



For, something duller than at first, 

Nor wholly comfortable, 
I sit (my empty glass reversed), 

And thrumming on the table : 

Half fearful that, with self at strife, 

I take-myself to .task ; 
Lest of the fulness of my life 

I leave an empty flask : 
For I had hope, by something rare, 

To prove myself a poet ; 
But, while I plan and plan, my hair 

Is gray before I know it. 

So fares it since the years began, 

Till they be gather'd up ; 
The truth, that flies the flowing can, 

Will haunt the vacant cup : 
And others' follies teach us not, 

t Nor much their wisdom teaches ; 

\ And most, of sterling worth, is what) 
\jOur own experience preaches. — « ' 

Ah, let the rusty theme alone ! 

We know not what we know. 
But for my pleasant hour, 't is gone, 

'T is gone, and let it go. 
*T is gone : a thousand such have slipt 

Away from my embraces, 
And fall'n into the dusty crypt 

Of darken' d forms and faces. 

Go, therefore, thou ! thy betters went 

Long since, and came no more : 
With peals of genial clamor sent 

From many a tavern-door, 
With twisted quirks and happy hits, 

From misty men of letters ; 
The tavern-hours of mighty wits, — 

Thine elders and thy betters. 

Hours, when the Poet's words and 
looks 

Had yet their native glow : 
Not yet the fear of little books 

Had made him talk for show ; 
But, all his vast heart sherris-warm'd, 

He flash 'd his random speeches ; 
Ere days, that deal in ana, swarm'd 

His literary leeches. 

So mix forever with the past, 
Like all good things on earth ! 

For should I prize thee, couldst thou 
last, 
At half thy real worth ? 



I hold it good, good things should pass : 
With time I will not quarrel : 

It is but yonder empty glass 
That makes me maudlin-moral. 



Head-waiter of the chop-house here, 

To which I most resort, 
I too must part : I hold thee dear 

For this good pint of port. 
For this, thou shalt from all things 
suck 

Marrow of mirth and laughter ; 
And, wheresoe'er thou move, good luck 

Shall fling her old shoe after. 

But thou wilt never move from hence, 

The sphere thy fate allots : 
Thy latter days increased with pence 

Go down among the pots : 
Thou battenest by the greasy gleam 

In haunts of hungry sinners, 
Old boxes, larded with the steam 

Of thirty thousand dinners. 

We fret, ive fume, would shift our skins, 

Would quarrel with our lot ; 
Thy care is, under polish'd tins, 

To serve the hot-and-hot ; 
To come and go, and come again, 

Returning like the pewit, 
And watch'd by silent gentlemen, 

That trifle with the cruet. 

Live long, ere from thy fopmost head 

The thick-set hazel dies ; 
Long, ere the hateful crow shall tread 

The corners of thine eyes : 
Live long, nor feel in head or chest 

Our changeful equinoxes, 
Till mellow Death, like some late 
guest, 

Shall call thee from the boxes. 

But when he calls, and thou shalt cease 

To pace the gritted floor, 
And, laying down an unctuous lease 

Of life, shalt earn no more ; 
No carved cross-bones, the types of 
Death, 

Shall show thee past to Heaven : 
But carved cross-pipes, and, under- 
neath, 

A pint-pot, neatly graven. 



TO E. L. — LADY CLARE. 



TO 



AFTER READING A LIFE AND LETTERS. 

M Cursed be he that moves my bones." 
Shakespeare's Epitaph. 

You might have won the Poet's name, 
If such be worth the winning now, 
And gain'd a laurel for your brow 

Of sounder leaf than I can claim ; 

But you have made the wiser choice, 
A life that moves to gracious ends 
Thro' troops of unrecording friends, 

A deedful life, a silent voice : 

And you have miss'd the irreverent 
doom 
Of those that wear the Poet's crown : 
Hereafter, neither knave nor clown 

Shall hold their orgies at your tomb. 

For now the Poet cannot die 
Nor leave his music as of old, 
But round him ere he scarce be cold 

Begins the scandal and the cry : 

<c Proclaim the faults he would not 
show : 
Break lock and seal : betray the 

trust : 
Keep nothing sacred : 't is but just 
The many-headed beast should know." 

Ah shameless ! for he did but sing 
A song that pleased us from its 

worth ;. 
No public life was his on earth, 

No blazon'd statesman he, nor king. 

He £*ave the people of his best : 

His worst he kept, his best he gave. 
My Shakespeare's curse on clown 
and knave 

Who will not let his ashes rest ! 

Who make it seem more sweet to be 
The little life of bank and brier, 
The bird that pipes his lone desire 

And dies unheard within his tree, 

Than he that warbles long and loud 
And drops at Glory's temple-gates, 
For whom the carrion vulture waits 

To tear his heart before the crowd ! 



TO E. L., ON HIS TRAVELS 
IN GREECE. 

Illyrian woodlands, echoing falls 
Of water, sheets of summer glass, 
The long divine Penei'an pass, 

The vast Akrokeraunian walls, 

Tomohrit,*Athos, afl things fair, 
With such a pencil, such a pen, 
You shadow forth to distant men, 

I read and felt that I was there : 

And trust me while I turn'd the page, 
And track'd you still on classic 

ground, 
I grew in gladness till I found 

My spirits in the golden age. 

For me the torrent ever pour'd 
And glisten'd — here and there alone 
The broad-limb'd Gods at random 
thrown 

By fountain-urns ; — and Naiads oar'd 

A glimmering shoulder under gloom 
Of cavern pillars ; on the swell 
The silver lily heaved and fell ; t 

And many a slope was rich in bloom 

From him that on the mountain lea 
By dancing rivulets fed his flocks, 
To him who sat upon the rocks, 

And fluted to the morning sea. 



LADY CLARE. 

It was the time when lilies blow, 
And clouds are highest up in air, 

Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe 
To give his cousin, Lady Clare. 

I trow they did not part in scorn : 
Lovers long-betroth'd were they : 

They two will wed the morrow morn ; 
God's blessing on the day ! 

" He does not love me for my birth. 
Nor for my lands so broad and fair ; 

He loves me for my own true worth, 
And that is well," said Lady Clare. 

In there came old Alice the nurse, 
Said, " Who was this that went from 
thee ? " 



LADY CLARE. 



105 



" It was my cousin," said Lady Clare, 
" To-morrow he weds with me." 

" O God be thank'd ! " said Alice the 
nurse, 
" That all comes round so just and 
fair? 
Lord Ronald is heir of all your lands, 
And you are not the Lady Clare." 

"Are ye out of your mind, my nurse, 
my nurse ? " 
Said Lady Clare, "that ye speak so 
wild?" 
"As God's above," said Alice the 
nurse, 
" I speak the truth : you are my 
child. 

" The old Earl's daughter died at my 
breast ; 

I speak the truth, as I live by bread ! 
I buried her like my own sweet child, 

And put my child in her stead." 

" Falsely, falsely have ye done, 
O mother," she said, " if this be true, 

To keep the best man under thp sun 
So many years from his due." 

" Nay now, my child," said Alice the 
nurse, 

" But keep the secret for your life, 
And all you have will be Lord Ronald's, 

When you are man and wife." 

" If I 'm a beggar born," she said, 
" I will speak out, for I dare not lie. 

Pull off, pull off, the broach of gold, 
And fling the diamond necklace by." 

" Nay now, my child," said Alice the 
nurse, 

" But keep the secret all ye can." 
She said " Not so : but I will know 

If there be any faith in man." 

"Nay now, what faith?" said Alice 
the nurse, 
"The man will cleave unto his right. " 
"And he shall have it," the lady re- 
plied, 
"Tho' I should die to-night." 

" Yet give one kiss to your mother 
dear ! 
Alas, my child, I sinn'd for thee." 



" O mother, mother, mother," she said, 
" So strange it seems to me. 

" Yet here 's a kiss for my mother dear, 
My mother dear, if this be so, 

And lay your hand upon my head, 
And bless me, mother, ere I go." 

She clad herself in a russet gown, 
She was no longer Lady Clare : 

She went by dale, and she went by 
down, 
With a single rose in her hair. 

The lily-white doe Lord Ronald had 
brought 

Leapt up from where she lay, 
Dropt her head in the maiden's hand, 

And follow' d her all the way. 

Down stept Lord Ronald from his 
tower : 
" O Lady Clare, you shame your 
worth ! 
Why come you drest like a village 
maid, 
That are the flower of the earth ? " 

" If I come drest like a village maid, 
I am but as my fortunes are : 

I am a beggar bom," she said, 
" And not the Lady Clare." 

"Play me no tricks," said Lord Ro- 
nald, 
" For I am yours in word and in 
deed. 
Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald, 
" Your riddle is hard to read." 

O and proudly stood she up ! 

Her heart within her did not fail : 
She look'd into Lord Ronald's eyes, 

And told him all her nurse's tale. 

He laugh'd a laugh of merry scorn : 
He turn'd, and kiss'd her where she 
stood : 

" If you are not the heiress born, 
And I," said he, " the next in blood — 

" If you are not the heiress born, 
And I," said he, " the lawful heir, 

We two will wed to-morrow morn, 
And you shall still be Lady Clare." 



io6 



THE LORD OF BURLEIGH. 



THE LORD "OF BURLEIGH. 

In her ear he whispers gayly, 

" If my heart by signs can tell, 
Maiden, I have watch'd thee daily, 

And I think thou lov'st me well." 
She replies, in accents fainter, 

"There is none I love like thee." 
He is but a landscape-painter, 

And a village maiden she. 
He to lips, that fondly falter, 

Presses his without reproof: 
Leads her to the village altar, 

And they leave her father's roof. 
11 1 can make no marriage present ; 

Little can I give my wife. 
Love will make our cottage pleas- 
ant, 

And I love thee more than life." 
They by parks and lodges going 

See the lordly castles stand : 
Summer woods, about them blowing, 

Made a murmur in the land. 
From deep thought himself he rouses, 

Says to her that loves him well, 
" Let us see these handsome houses 

Where the wealthy nobles dwell." 
So she goes by him attended, 

Hears him lovingly converse, 
Sees whatever fair and splendid 

Lay betwixt his home and hers ; 
Parks with oak and chestnut shady, 

Parks and order'd gardens great, 
Ancient homes of lord and lady, 

Built for pleasure and for state. 
All he shows her makes him dearer : 

Evermore she seems to gaze 
On that cottage growing nearer, 

Where they twain will spend their 
days. 
O but she will love him truly ! 

He shall have a cheerful home ; 
She will order all things duly, 

When beneath his roof they come. 
Thus her heart rejoices greatly, 

Till a gateway she discerns 
With armorial bearings stately, 

And beneath the gate she turns ; 
Sees a mansion more majestic 

Than all those she saw before : 
Many a gallant gay domestic 

Bows before him at the door. 
And they speak in gentle murmur, 

When they answer to his call, 



While he treads with footstep firmer, 

Leading on from hall to hall. 
And, while now she wonders blindly, 

Nor the meaning can divine, 
Proudly turns he round and kindly, 

" All of this is mine and thine." 
Here he lives in state and bounty, 

Lord of Burleigh, fair and free, 
Not a lord in all the county 

Is so great a lord as he. 
All at once the color flushes 

Her sweet face from brow to chin : 
As it were with shame she blushes, 

And her spirit changed within. 
Then her countenance all over 

Pale again as death did prove ; 
But he clasp'd her like a lover,. 
\ And he cheer'd her soul with love. 
So she strove against her weakness, 

Tho' at times her spirits sank : 
Shaped her heart with woman's meek- 
ness 

To all duties of her rank : 
And a gentle consort made he, 

And her gentle mind was such 
That she grew a noble lady, 

And the people loved her much. 
But a trouble weigh'd upon her, 

And perplex'd her, night and morn, 
With the burden of an honor 

Unto which she was not born. 
Faint she grew, and ever fainter, 

As she murmur'd, " O, that he 
Were once more that landscape-paint- 
er, 

Which did win my heart from me!" 
So she droop'd and droop'd before 
him, 

Fading slowly from his side : 
Three fair children first she bore him, 

Then before her time she died. 
Weeping, weeping late and early, 

Walking up and pacing down, 
Deeply mourn'd the Lord of Bur- 
leigh, 

Burleigh-house by Stamford-town. 
And he came to look upon her, 

And he look'd at her and said, 
" Bring the dress and put it on her, 

That she wore when she was wed." 
Then her people, softly treading, 

Bore to earth her body, drest 
In the dress that she was wed in, 

That, her spirit might have rest. 



SIR LAUNCELOT AND QUEEN GUINEVERE. 



SIR LAUNCELOT AND QUEEN 
GUINEVERE. 

A FRAGMENT. 

Like souls that balance joy and pain, 
With tears and smiles from heaven 

again 
The maiden Spring upon the plain 
Came in a sunlit fall of rain. 

In crystal vapor everywhere 
Blue isles of heaven laugh'd between, 
And, far in forest-deeps unseen, 
The topmost elm-tree gather'd green 

From draughts of balmy air. 

Sometimes the linnet piped his song : 
Sometimes the throstle whistled strong: 
Sometimesthesparhawk,wheel'dalong, 
Hush'd all the groves from fear of 
wrong : 

By grassy capes with fuller sound 
In curves the yellowing river ran, 
And drooping chestnut-buds began 
To spread into the perfect fan, 

Above the teeming ground. 

Then, in the boyhood of the year, 
Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere 
Rode thro' the coverts of the deer, 
With blissful treble ringing clear. 

She seem'da part of joyous Spring: 
A gown of grass-green silk she wore, 
Buckled with golden clasps before ;. 
A light-green tuft of plumes she bore 

Closed in a golden ring. 

Now on some twisted ivy-net, 

Now by some tinkling rivulet, 

In mosses mixt with violet 

Her cream-white mule his pastern set : 

And fleeter now she skimm'd the 
- plains 

Than she whose elfin prancer springs 
By night to eery warblings, 
When all the glimmering moorland rings 

With jingling bridle-reins. 

As she fled fast thro' sun and shade, 
The happy winds upon her play'd, 
Blowing the ringlet from the braid : 
She look'd so lovely, as she sway'd 

The rein with dainty finger-tips, 
A man had given all other bliss, 
And all his worldly worth for this, 
To waste his whole heart in one kiss 

Upon her perfect lips. 



A FAREWELL. 

Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea, 

Thy tribute wave deliver : 
No more by thee my steps shall be, 

Forever and forever. 

Flow, softly flow, by lawn and lea, 

A rivulet then a river : 
Nowhere%y thee my steps shall be, 

Forever and forever. 

But here will sigh thine alder tree, 
And here thine aspen shiver ; 

And here by thee will hum the bee, 
Forever and forever. 

A thousand suns will stream on thee, 
A thousand moons will quiver ; 

But not by thee my steps shall be, 
Forever and forever. 



THE BEGGAR MAID. 

Her arms across her breast she laid ; 

She was more fair than words can say: 
Barefooted came the beggar maid 

Before the king Cophetua. 
In robe and crown the king stept down, 

To meet and greet her on her way ; 
" It is no wonder," said the lords, 

" She is more beautiful than day." 

As shines the moon in clouded skies, 

She in her poor attire was seen : 
One praised her ankles, one her eyes, 

One her dark hair and lovesome 
mien. 
So sweet a face, such angel grace, 

In all that land had never been : 
Cophetua sware a royal oath : 

" This beggar maid shall be my 
queen ! " 



THE VISION OF SIN. 

i. 

I had a vision when the night was late : 

A youth came riding toward a palace- 
gate. 

He rode a horse with wings, that would 
have flown, 

But that his heavy rider kept him down. 

And from the palace came a child of sin, 



io8 



THE VISION OF SIM. 



And took him by the curls, and led him 

in, 
Where sat a company with heated eyes, 
Expecting when a fountain should 

arise : 
A sleepy light upon their brows and 

lips — 
As when the sun, a crescent of eclipse, 
Dreams over lake and lawn,*and isles 

and capes — 
Suffused them, sitting, lying, languid 

shapes, 
By heaps of gourds, and skins of wine, 

and piles of grapes. 

2. 

Then methought I heard a mellow 

sound, 
Gathering up from all the lower ground ; 
Narrowing in to where they sat assem- 
bled 
Low voluptuous music winding trem- 
bled, 
Wov'n in circles : they that heard it 

sigh'd, 
Panted hand in hand with faces pale, 
Swung themselves, and in low tones 

replied ; 
Till the fountain spouted, showering 

wide 
Sleet of diamond-drift and pearly hail .; 
Then the music touch'd the gates and 

died ; 
Rose again from where it seem'd to fail, 
Storm'd in orbs of song, a growing gale ; 
Till thronging in and in, to where they 

waited, 
As 't were a hundred-throated nightin- 
gale, 
The strong tempestuous treble throbb'd 

and palpitated ; 
Ran into its giddiest whirl of sound, 
Caught the sparkles, and in circles, 
Purple gauzes, golden hazes, liquid 

mazes, 
Flung the torrent rainbow round : 
Then they started from their places, 
Moved with violence, changed in hue, 
Caught each other with wild grimaces, 
Half-invisible to the view, 
Wheeling with precipitate paces . 
To the melody, till they flew, 
Hair, and eyes, and limbs, and faces, 
Twisted hard in fierce embraces, 
Like to Furies, like to Graces, 



Dash'd together in blinding dew : 
Till, kill'd with some luxunous agony, 
The nerve-dissolving melody 
Fl utter' d headlong from the sky. 

3- 

And then I look'd up toward a moun- 
tain-tract, < 

That girt the region with high cliff and 
lawn : 

I saw that every morning, far with- 
drawn 

Beyond the darkness and the cataract, 

God made himself an awful rose of 
dawn, 

Unheeded : and detaching, fold by fold, 

From those still heights, and, slowly 
drawing near, 

A vapor heavy, hueless, formless, cold, 

Came floating on for many a month 
and year, 

Unheeded : and I thought I would 
have spoken, 

And warn'd that madman ere it grew 
too late : 

But, as in dreams, I could not. Mine 
was broken, 

When that cold vapor touch'd the 
palace gate, 

And link'd again. I saw within my head 

A gray and gap-tooth'd man as lean as 
death, 

Who slowly rode across a wither'd 
heath, 

And lighted at a ruin'd inn, and said : 



" Wrinkled hostler, grim and thin ! 

Here is custom come your way ; 
Take my brute, and lead him in, 

Stuff his ribs with mouldy hay. • 
" Bitter barmaid, waning fast ! 

See that sheets are on my bed ; 
What ! the flower of life is past : 

It is long before you wed. 
" Slip-shod waiter, lank and sour, 

At the Dragon on the heath ! 
Let us have a quiet hour, 

Let us hob-and-nob with Death. 
" I am old, but let me drink ; 

Bring me spices, bring me wine ; 
I remember, when I think, 

That my youth was half divine. 



THE VISION OF SIN. 



109 



" Wine is good for shrivell'd lips, 
When a blanket wraps the day, 

When the rotten woodland drips, 
And the leaf is stamp'd in clay. 

" Sit thee down, and have no shame, 
Cheek by jowl, and knee by knee : 

What care I for any name ? 
What for order or degree ? 

Let me screw thee up a peg : 
Let me loose thy tongue with wine : 
Callest thou that thing a leg ? 
Which is thinnest? thine or mine? 

'^Thou shalt not be saved by works : 
Thou hast been a sinner too : 

Ruin'd trunks on wither'd forks, 
Empty scarecrows, I and you 1 

"Fill the cup, and fill the can : 
Have a rouse before the morn : 

Every moment dies a man, 
Every moment one is born. 

" We are men of ruin'd blood ; 

Therefore comes it we are wise. 
Fish are we that love the mud, 

Rising to no fancy-flies. 

" Name and fame ! to fly sublime 
Through the courts, the camps, the 
schools, 

Is to be the ball of Time, 

Bandied in the hands of fools. 

" Friendship ! — to be two in one — 

Let the canting liar pack ! 
Well I know, when I am gone, 

How she mouths behind my back. 

" Virtue ! — to be good and just — 
Every heart, when sifted well, 

Is a clot of warmer dust, 

Mix'd with cunning- sparks of hell. 

" O ! we two as well can look 
Whited thought and cleanly life 

As the priest, above his book 
Leering at his neighbor's wife. 

" Fill the cup, and fill the can : 
Have a rouse before the morn : 

Every moment dies a man, 
Every moment one is born. 

" Drink, and let the parties rave : 
. They are fill'd with idle spleen ; 
Rising, falling, like a wave, 

For they know not what they mean. 



" He that roars for liberty 

Faster binds a tyrant's power ; 

And the tyrant's cruel glee 
Forces on the freer hour. 

" Fill the can, and fill the cup : 
All the windy ways of men 

Are but dust that rises up, 
And is lightly laid again. 

" Greet her with applausive breath, 
Freedom, gayly doth she tread ; 

In her right a civic wreath, 
In her left a human head. 

" No, I love not what is new ; 

She is of an ancient house : 
And I think we know the hue 

Of that cap upon her brows. 

" Let her go ! her thirst she slakes 
Where the bloody conduit runs : 

Then her sweetest meal she makes 
On the first-born of her sons. 

" Drink to lofty hopes that cool — 
Visions of a perfect State : 

Drink we, last, the public fool, 
Frantic love and frantic hate. 

" Chant me now some wicked stave, 
Till thy drooping courage rise, 

And the glow-worm of the grave 
Glimmer in thy rheumy eyes. 

" Fear not thou to loose thy tongue ; 

Set thy hoary fancies free ; 
What is loathsome to the young 

Savors well to thee and me. 

" Change, reverting to the years, 
When thy nerves could understand 

What there is in loving tears, 
And the warmth of hand in hand. 

"Tell me tales of thy first love — 
April hopes, the fools of chance : 

Till the graves begin to move, 
And the dead begin to dance. 

" Fill the can, and fill the cup : 
All the windy ways of men 

Are but dust that rises up, 
And is lightly laid again. 

" Trooping from their mouldy dens 
The chap-fallen circle spreads : 

Welcome, fellow-citizens, 

Hollow hearts and empty heads ! 



COME NOT, WHEN I AM DEAD. — THE EAGLE. 



"You are bones, and what of that? 

Every face, however full, 
Padded round with flesh and fat, 

Is but modell'd on a skull. 

" Death is king, and Vivat Rex ! 

Tread a measure on the stones, 
Madam — if I know your sex, 

From the fashion of your bones. 

" No, I cannot praise the fire _ 
In your eye — nor yet your lip : 

All the more do I admire 

Joints of cunning workmanship. 

" Lo ! God's likeness — the ground- 
plan — 

Neither modell'd, glazed, or framed : 
Buss me, thou rough sketch of man, 

Far too naked to be shamed ! 

" Drink to Fortune, drink to Chance, 
While we keep a little breath ! 

Drink to heavy Ignorance ! 

Hob-and-nob with brother Death ! 

" Thou art mazed, the night is long, 
And the longer night is near : 

What ! I am not all as wrong 
As a bitter jest is dear. 

" Youthful hopes, by scores, to all, 
When the locks are crisp and curl'd ; 

Unto me my maudlin gall 

And my mockeries of the world. 

" Fill the cup, and fill the can ! 

Mingle madness, mingle scorn ! 
Dregs of life, and lees of man : 

Yet we will not die forlorn." 



The voice grew faint : there came a 

further change : 
Once more uprose the mystic moun- 
tain-range : 
Below were men and horses pierced 

with worms, 
And slowly quickening into lowerfcims: 
By shards and scurf of salt, and scum 

of dross, 
Old plash of rains, and refuse patch'd 

with moss. 
Then some one spake : " Behold ! it 

was a crime 
Of sense avenged by sense that wore 

with time." 



Another said : " The crime of sense 
became 

The crime of malice, and is equal 
blame." 

And one : " He had not wholly 
quench'd his power ; 

A little grain of conscience made him 
sour." 

At last I heard a voice upon the slope 

Cry to the summit, " Is there any 
hope ? " 

To which an answer peal'd from that 
high land, 

But in a tongue no man could under- 
stand ; 

And on the glimmering limit far with- 
drawn 

God made Himself an awful rose of 
dawn. 



Come not, when I am dead, 
To drop thy foolish tears upon my 
grave, 
To trample round my fallen head, 
And vex the unhappy dust thou 
wouldst not save. 
There let the wind sweep and the 
plover cry ; 
But thou, go by. 

Child, if it were thine error or thy 
crime 
I care no longer, being all unblest : 
Wed whom thou wilt, but I am sick of 
Time, 
And I desire to rest. 
Pass on, weak heart, and leave me 
where I lie : 
Go by, go by. 



THE EAGLE. 

FRAGMENT. 

He clasps the crag with hooked hands ; 
Close to the sun in lonely lands, 
Ring'd with the azure world, he stands. 

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls ; 
He watches from his mountain walls, 
And like a thunderbolt he falls. 



BREAK, BREAK, BREAK. — THE POET'S SONG. m 



Move eastward, happy earth, and leave 
Yon orange sunset waning slow : 

From fringes of the faded eve, 
O, happy planet, eastward go : 

Till over thy dark shoulder glow 
Thy silver sister-world, and rise 
To glass herself in dewy eyes 

That watch me from the glen below. 

Ah, bear me with thee, lightly borne, 
Dip forward under starry light, 

And move me to my marriage- morn, 
And round again to happy night. 



Break, break, break, 

On thy cold gray stones, O Sea ! 
And I would that my tongue could 
utter 

The thoughts that arise in me. 

O well for the fisherman's boy, 
That he shouts with his sister at 
play ! 

O well for the sailor lad, 

That he sings in his boat on the bay ! 

And the stately ships go on 
To their haven under the hill ; 

But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand, 
And the sound of a voice that is 
still! 



Break, break, break, 

At the foot of thy crags, O Sea ! 
But the tender grace of a day that is 
dead 

Will never come back to me. 



THE POET'S SONG. 

The rain had fallen, the Poet arose, 
He pass'd by the town and out of 
the street, 
A light wind- blew from the gates of 
the sun, 
And waves of shadow went over the 
wheat, 
And he sat him down in a lonely 
place, 
And chanted a melody loud and 
sweet, 
That made the wild-swan pause in her 
cloud, 
And the lark drop down at his feet. 

The swallow stopt as he hunted the 

bee, 
The snake slipt under a spray, 
The wild hawk stood with the down on 
his beak, 
And stared, with his foot on the 
prey, 
And the nightingale thought, " I have 
sung many songs, 
But never a one so gay, 
For he sings of what the world will be 
When the years have died away." 



THE PRINCESS: 



THE PRINCESS 



A MEDLEY. 



TO 

HENRY LUSHINGTON 

THIS VOLUME IS INSCRIBED BY HIS FRIEND 

A. TENNYSON. 



PROLOGUE. 

Sir Walter Vivian all a summer's 

day 
Gave his broad lawns until the set of 

sun 
Up to the people : thither flock'd at 

noon 
His tenants, wife and child, and thither 

half 
The neighboring borough with their 

Institute 
Of which he was the patron. I was 

there 
From college, visiting the son, — the 

son 
A Walter too, — with others of our set, 
Five others : we were seven at Vivian- 
place. 

And me that morning Walter show'd 

the house, 
Greek, set with busts : from vases in 

the hall 
Flowers of all heavens, and lovelier 

than their names, 
Grew side by side ; and on the pave- 
ment lay 
Carved stones of the Abbey-ruin in the 

park, 
Huge Ammonites, and the first bones 

of Time ; 
And on the tables every clime and age 
Jumbled together : celts and calumets, 
Claymore and snow-shoe, toys in lava, 

fans 



Of sandal, amber, ancient rosaries, 
Laborious orient ivory sphere in sphere, 
The cursed Malayan crease, and battle- 
clubs 
From the isles of palm : and higher on 

the walls, 
Betwixt the monstrous horns of elk 

and deer, 
His own forefathers' arms and armor 
hung. 

And "this," he said, "was Hugh's 

at Agincourt ; 
And that was old Sir Ralph's at Asca- 

lon : 
A good knight he ! we keep a chronicle 
With all about him," — which he 

brought, and I 
Dived in a hoard of tales that dealt 

with knights 
Half-legend, half-historic, counts and 

kings 
Who laid about them at their wills and 

died ; 
And mixt with these, a lady, one that 

arm'd 
Her own fair head, and sallying thro' 

the gate, 
Had beat her foes with slaughter from 

her walls. 

" O miracle of women," said the 
book, 
" O noble heart who, being strait- 
besieged 



A MEDLEY. 



"3 



By this wild king to force her to his 

wish, 
Nor bent, nor broke, nor shunn'd a 

soldier's death, 
But now when all was lost or seem'd 

as lost — 
Her stature more than mortal in the 

burst 
Of sunrise, her arm lifted, eyes on fire — 
Brake with a blast of trumpets from 

the gate, 
And, falling on them like a thunder- 
bolt, 
She trampled some beneath her horses' 

heels, 
And some were whelm'd with missiles 

of the wall, 
And some were push'd with lances 

from the rock, 
And part were drown'd within the 

whirling brook : 
O miracle of noble womanhood ! " 

So sang the gallant glorious chroni- 
cle; 

And, I all rapt in this, "Come out," 
he said, 

" To the Abbey : there is Aunt Eliza- 
beth 

And sister Lilia with the rest." We 
went 

(I kept the book and had my finger in it) 

Down thro' the park : strange was the 
sight to me ; 

For all the sloping pasture murmur'd, 
sown 

With happy faces and with holiday. 
I There moved the multitude, a thou- 
sand heads : 

The patient leaders of their Institute 
i Taught them with facts. One rear'd 
a font of stone 

And drew, from butts of water on the 
slope, 

The fountain of the moment, playing 
now 

A twisted snake, and now a rain of 
pearls, 

Or steep-up spout whereon the gilded 
ball 

Danced like a wisp : and somewhat 
lower down 

A man with knobs and wires and vials 
fired 



A cannon : Echo answer'd in her sleep 
From hollow fields : and here were tele- 
scopes 
For azure views ; and there a group of 

_ girls 
In circle waited, whom the electric 

shock 
Dislink'd with shrieks and laughter: 

round the lake 
A little clock-work steamer paddling 

plied 
And shook the lilies : perch'd about 

the knolls 
A dozen angry models jetted steam : 
A petty railway ran : a fire-balloon 
Rose gem-like up before the dusky 

groves 
And dropt a fairy parachute and past : 
And there thro' twenty posts of tele- 
graph 
They flash'd a saucy message to and 

fro 
Between the mimic stations; so that 

sport 
Went hand in hand with Science ; 

otherwhere 
Pure sport : a herd of boys with clamor 

bowl'd 
And stump'd the wicket ; babies roll'd 

about 
Like tumbled fruit in grass ; and men 

and maids 
Arranged a country dance, and flew 

thro' light 
And shadow, while the twangling violin 
Struck up with Soldier-laddie, and 

overhead 
The broad ambrosial aisles of lofty lime 
Made noise with bees and breeze from 

end to end. 

Strange was the sight and smacking 

of the time ; 
And long we gazed, but satiated at 

length 
Came to the ruins. High-arch' d and 

ivyiclaspt, 
Of finest Gothic lighter than a fire, 
Thro' one wide chasm of time and 

frost they gave 
The park, the crowd, the house ; but 

all within 
The sward was trim as any garden 

lawn : 



H4 



THE PRINCESS: 






And here we lit on Aunt Elizabeth, 
And Lilia with the rest, and lady friends 
From neighbor seats : and there was 

Ralph himself, 
A broken statue propt against the wall, 
As gay as any. Lilia, wild with sport, 
Half child, half woman as she was, 

had wound 
A scarf of orange round the stony helm, 
And robed the shoulders in a rosy silk, 
That made the old warrior from his 

ivied nook 
Glow like a sunbeam : near his tomb 

a feast 
Shone, silver-set; about it lay the 

guests, 
And there we join'd them : then the 

maiden Aunt 
Took this fair day for text, and from it 

preach' d 
An universal culture for the crowd, 
And all things great ; but we, unwor- 

thier, told 
Of college : he had climb'd across the 

spikes, 
And he had squeezed himself betwixt 

the bars, 
And he had breathed the Proctor's 

dogs : and one 
Discuss'd his tutor, rough to common 

men, 
But honeying at the whisper of a lord ; 
And one the Master, as a rogue in 

grain 
Veneer'd with sanctimonious theory. 

But while they talk'd, above their 

heads I saw 
The feudal warrior lady-clad ; which 

brought 
My book to mind : and opening this 

I read 
Of old Sir Ralph a page or two that 

rang 
With tilt and tourney ; then the tale 

of her 
That drove her foes with slaughter from 

her walls, 
And much I praised her nobleness, 

and "Where," 
Ask'd Walter, patting Lilia's head (she 

lay 
Beside him) " lives there such a woman 

now f " 



Quick answer' d Lilia, " There are 

thousands now 
Such women, but convention beats 

them down : 
It is but bringing up ; no more than 

that : 
You men have done it : how I hate 

you all ! 
Ah, were 1 something great I I wish 

1 were 
Some mighty poetess, I would shame 

you then, 
That lo^e to keep us children 1 O I 

wish 
That I were some great Princess, I 

would build 
Far off from men a college like a man's, 
And I would teach them all that men 

are taught : 
We are twice as quick ! " And here 

she shook aside 
The hand that play'd the patron with 

her curls. 

And one said smiling, " Pretty were 

the sight 
If our old halls could change their sex, 

and flaunt 
With prudes for proctors, dowagers 

for deans, 
And sweet girl-graduates in their golden 

hair. 
I think they should not wear our rusty 

gowns, 
But move as rich as Emperor-moths, 

or Ralph 
Who shines so in the corner ; yet I fear, 
If there were many Lilias in the brood, 
However deep you might embower the 

nest, 
Some boy would spy it." 

At this upon the sward 
She tapt her tiny silken-sandaPd foot : 
" That 's your light way ; but I would 

make it death 
For any male thing but to peep at us." 

Petulant she spoke, and at herself 

she laugh'd ; 
A rose-bud set with little wilful thorns, 
And sweet as English air could make 

her, she : 
But Walter hail'd a score of names 

upon her, 



A MEDLEY. 



"5 



And " petty Ogress," and " ungrateful 

Puss," • 

And swore he long'd at College, only 
long'd, 

All else was well, for she-society. 

They boated and they cricketed ; they 
talk'd 

At wine, in clubs, of art, of politics ; 

They lost their weeks ; they vext the 
souls of deans ; 

They rode ; they betted ; made a hun- 
dred friends, 

And caught the blossom of the flying 
terms, 

But miss'd the mignonette of Vivian- 
place, 

The little hearth-flower Lilia. Thus 
he spoke, 

Part banter, part affection. 

" True," she said, 

u We doubt not that. O yes, you 
miss'd us much. • 

I '11 stake my ruby ring upon it you 
did." 

She held it out; and as a parrot 

turns 
Up thro' gilt wires a crafty loving eye, 
And takes a lady's finger with all care, 
And bites it for true heart and not for 

harm, 
So he with Lilia's. Daintily she 

shriek'd 
And wrung it. "Doubt my word 

again !" he said. 
" Come, listen ! here is proof that you 

were miss'd : 
We seven stay'd at Christmas up to 

read, 
And there we took one tutor as to read : 
The hard-grain 'd Muses of the cube 

and square 
Were out of season : never man, I 

think, 
So moulder'd in a sinecure as he : 
For while our cloisters echo'd frosty 

feet, 
And our long walks were stript as bare 

as brooms, 
We did but talk you over, pledge you all 
In wassail ; often, like as many girls — 
Sick for the hollies and the yews of 

home — 
As many little trifling Lilias — play'd 



Charades and riddles as at Christmas 

here, 
And -what *s my thotight and when 

and where and how, 
And often told a tale from mouth to 

mouth 
As here at Christmas." 

She remember'd that ; 
A pleasant game, she thought : she 

liked it more 
Than magic music, forfeits, all the 

rest. 
But these — what kind of tales did men 

tell men, 
She wonder'd, by themselves ? 

A half-disdain 
Perch'd on the pouted blossom of her 

lips : 
And Walter nodded at me ; " He be- 
gan, 
The rest would follow, each in turn ; 

and so 
We forged a sevenfold story. Kind? 

what kind ? 
Chimeras, crotchets, Christmas sole- 
cisms, 
Seven-headed monsters only made to 

kill 
Time by the fire in winter." 

" Kill him now, 
The tyrant ! kill him in the summer 

too," 
Said Lilia; "Why not now," the 

maiden Aunt. 
" Why not a summer's as a winter's 

tale ? 
A tale for summer as befits the time, 
And something it should be to suit the 

place, 
Heroic, for a hero lies beneath, 
Grave, solemn ! " 

Walter warp'd his mouth at this 
To something so mock-solemn, that I 

laugh' d 
And Lilia woke with sudden-shrilling 

mirth 
An echo like a ghostly woodpecker, 
Hid in the ruins ; till the maiden Aunt 
(A little sense of wrong had touch'd her 

face 
With color) turn'd to me with " As you 

_ will ; 
Heroic if you will, or what you will, 
Or be yourself your hero if you will." 



n6 



THE PRINCESS: 



"Take Lilia, then, for heroine," 

clamor'd he, 
" And make her some great Princess, 

six feet high, 
Grand, epic, homicidal ; and be you, 
The Prince to win her ! " 

" Then follow me, the Prince," 
I answer'd, "each be hero in his turn ! 
Seven and yet one, like shadows in a 

dream. — 
Heroic seems our Princess as re- 
quired. — 
But something made to suit with Time 

and place, 
A Gothic ruin and a Grecian house, 
A talk of college and of ladies' rights, 
A feudal knight in silken masquerade, 
And, yonder, shrieks and strange ex- 
periments 
For which the good Sir Ralph had 

burnt them all — 
This ivere a medley ! we should have 

him back 
Who told the ' Winter's tale ' to do it 

for us. 
No matter : we will say whatever 

comes. 
And let the ladies sing us, if they will, 
From time to time, some ballad or a 

song 
To give us breathing-space." 

So I began, 
And the rest follow'd : and the women 

sang 
Between the rougher voices of the men, 
Like linnets in the pauses of the wind : 
And here I give the story and the songs. 



I. 



A Prince I was, blue-eyed, and fair in 

face, 
Of temper amorous, as the first of May, 
With lengths of yellow ringlet, like a 

girl, 
For on my cradle shone the Northern 

star. 

There lived an ancient legend in our 
house. 
Some sorcerer, whom a far-off grand- 
sire burnt 



Because he cast no shadow, had fore- 
told, 
Dying, that none of all our blood 

should know 
The shadow from the substance, and 

that one 
Should come to fight with shadows and 

to fall. 
For so, my mother said, the story ran. 
And, truly, waking dreams were, more 

or less, 
An old and strange affection of the 

house. 
Myself too had weird seizures, Heaven 

knows what : 
On a sudden in the midst of men and 

day, 
And while I walk'd and talk'd as here- 
tofore, 
I seem'd to move among a world of 

ghosts, 
And feel myse]f the shadow of a dream. 
Our great court-Galen poised his gilt- 
head cane, 
And paw'd his beard, and mutter'd 

"catalepsy." 
My mother pitying made a thousand 

prayers ; 
My mother was as mild as any saint, 
Half-canonized by all that look'd on 

her, 
So gracious was her tact and tender- 
ness : 
But my good father thought a king a 

king ; 
He cared not for the affection of the 

house ; 
He held his sceptre like a pedant's 

wand 
To "lash offence, and with long arms 

and hands 
Reach'd out, and pick'd offenders from 

the mass 
For judgment. 

Now it chanced that I had been, 
While life was yet in bud and blade, 

betroth'd 
To one, a neighboring Princess : she 

to me 
Was proxy-wedded with a bootless calf 
At eight years old ; and still from time 

to time 
Came murmurs of her beauty from the 

South, 



A MEDLEY. 



117 



And of her brethren, youths of puis- 
sance ; 

And still I wore her picture by my 
heart, 

And one dark tress ; and all around 
them both 

Sweet thoughts would swarm as bees 
about their queen. 

But when the days drew nigh that I 

should wed, 
My father sent ambassadors with furs 
And jewels, gifts, to fetch her : these 

brought back 
A present, a great labor of the loom ; 
And therewithal an answer vague as 

wind : 
Besides, they saw the king ; he took 

the gifts ; 
He said there was a compact ; that was 

true : 
But then she had a will ; was he to 

blame? 
And maiden fancies ; loved to live 

alone 
Among her women ; certain, would not 

wed. 

That morning in the presence room 

I stood 
With Cyril and with Florian, my two 

friends : 
The first, a gentleman of broken 

means 
(His father's fault) but given to starts 

and bursts 
Of revel ; and the last, my other heart, 
And almost my half-self, for still we 

moved 
Together, twinn'd as horse's ear and 

eye. 

Now, while they spake, I saw my fa- 
ther's face 

Grow long and troubled like a rising 
moon, 

Inflamed with wrath : he started on his 
feet, 

Tore the king's letter, snow'd it down, 
and rent 

The wonder of the loom thro' warp and 
woof 

From skirt to skirt ; and at the last he 
sware 



That he would send a hundred thou- 
sand men, 

And bring her in a whirlwind : then he 
chew'd 

The thrice-turn'd cud of wrath, and 
cook'd his spleen, 

Communing with his captains of the 
war. 

At last I spoke. " My father, let 

me go. 
It cannot be but some gross error lies 
In this report, this answer of a king, 
Whom all men rate as kind and hos- 
pitable : 
Or, maybe, I myself, my bride once 

seen, 
Whate'er my grief to find her less than 

fame, 
May rue the bargain made." And 

Florian said : 
" I have a sister at the foreign court, 
Who moves about the Princess; she, 

you know, 
Who wedded with a nobleman from 

thence : 
He, dying lately, left her, as I hear, 
The lady of three castles in that land : 
Thro' her this matter might be sifted 

clean." 
And Cyril whisper'd : " Take me with 

you too." 
Then laughing " what, if these weird 

seizures come 
Upon you in those lands, and no one 

near 
To point you out the shadow from the 

truth ! 
Take me : I '11 serve you better in a 

strait ; 
I grate on rusty hinges here " : but 

" No ! " 
Roar'd the rough king, " you shall not ; 

we ourself 
Will crush her pretty maiden fancies 

dead 
In iron gauntlets : break the council 

up." 

But when the council broke, I rose 

and past 
Thro' the wild woods that hung about 

the town ; 
Found a still place, and pluck'd her 

likeness out; 



n8 



THE PRINCESS: 



Laid it on flowers, ar*d watch' d it lying 

bathed 
In the green gleam of dewy-tassell'd 

trees : 
What were those fancies? wherefore 

break her troth ? 
Proud look'd the lips : but while I 

meditated 
A wind arose and rush'd upon the 

South, 
And shook the songs, the whispers, and 

the shrieks 
Of the wild woods together; and a 

Voice 
Went with it, " Follow, follow, thou 

shalt win." 

Then, ere the silver sickle of that 

month 
Became her golden shield, I stole from 

court 
With Cyril and with Florian, unper- 

ceived, 
Cat-footed thro' the town and half in 

dread 
To hear my father's clamor at our backs 
With Ho ! from some bay-window 

shake the night ; 
But all was quiet : from the bastion'd 

walls 
Like threaded spiders, one by one, we 

dropt, 
And flying reach' d the frontier : then 

we crost 
To a livelier land ; and so by tilth and 

grange, 
And vines, and blowing bosks of wil- 
derness, 
We gain'd the mother-city thick with 

towers, 
And in the imperial palace found the 

king. 

His name was Gama ; crack'd and 
small his voice, 

But bland the smile that like a wrin- 
kling wind 

On glassy water drove his cheek in 
lines ; 

A little dry old man, without a star, 

Not like a king : three days he feasted 
us, 

And on the fourth I spake of why we 
came, 



And my betroth/d. "You do us, 
Prince," he said, 

Airing a snowy hand and signet gem, 

"All honor. We remember love our- 
selves 

In our sweet youth : there did a com- 
pact pass 

Long summers back, a kind of cere- 
mony — 

I think the year in which our olives 
fail'd. 

I would you had hsr, Prince, with all 
my heart, 

With my full heart : but there were 
widows here, 

Two widows, Lady Psyche, Lady 
Blanche ; 

They fed her theories, in and out of 
place 

Maintaining that with equal husbandry 

The woman were an equal to the man. 

They harp'd on this ; with this our 
banquets rang ; 

Our dances broke and buzz'd in knots 
of talk; 

Nothing but this ; my very ears were 
hot 

To hear them : knowledge, so my 
daughter held, 

Was all in all ; they had but been, she 
thought, 

As children ; they must lose the child, 
assume 

The woman : then, Sir, awful odes she 
wrote, 

Too awful, sure, for what they treated 
of, 

But all she is and does is awful ; odes 

About this losing of the child ; and 
rhymes 

And dismal lyrics, prophesying change 

Beyond all reason : these the women 
sang; 

And they that know such things — I 
sought but peace ; 

No critic I — would call them master- 
pieces ; 

They master'd me. At last she begg'd 
a boon 

A certain summer-palace which I have 

Hard by your father's frontier : I said 
no, 

Yet being an easy man, gave it ; and 
there, 



A MEDLEY. 



rig 



All wild to found an University 

For maidens, on the spur she fled ; 

and more 
We know not, — only this : they see 

no men, 
Not ev'n her brother Arac,nor the twins 
Her brethren, tho' they love her, look 

upon her 
As on a kind of paragon ; and I 
(Pardon me saying it) were much loath 

to breed 
Dispute betwixt myself and mine : but 

since 
(And I confess with right) you think 

me bound 
In some sort, I can give you letters to 

her ; 
And yet, to speak the truth, I rate 

your chance 
Almost at naked nothing." 

Thus the king ; 
And I, tho' nettled that he seem'd to 

slur 
With garrulous ease and oily courtesies 
Our formal compact, yet, not less (all 

frets 
But chafing me on fire to find my bride) 
Went forth again with both my friends. 

We rode 
Many a long league back to the North, 

At last 
From hills, that look'd across a land 

of hope, 
We dropt with evening on a rustic town 
Set in a gleaming river's crescent-curve, 
Close at the boundary of the liberties ; 
There enter'd an old hostel, call'd mine 

host 
To council, plied him with his richest 

wines, 
And show'd the late-writ letters of the 

king. 

He with a long low sibilation, stared 
As blank as death in marble ; then 

exclaim'd 
Averring it was clear against all rules 
For any man to go : but as his brain 
Began to mellow, "If the king," he 

said, 
" Had given us letters, was he bound 

to speak*? 
The king would bear him out " ; and 

at the last — 



The summer of the vine in all his 

veins — 
" No doubt that we might make it 

worth his while. 
She once had past that way ; he heard 

her speak ; 
She scared him ; life ! he never saw 

the like ; 
She look'd as grand as doomsday and 

as grave : 
And he, he reverenced his liege-lady 

there ; 
He always made a point to post with 

mares ; 
His daughter and his housemaid were 

the boys : 
The land he understood for miles about 
Was till'd by women ; all the swine 

were sows, 
And all the dogs — " 

But while he jested thus, 
A thought flash' d thro' me which I 

clothed in act, 
Remembering how we three presented 

Maid 
Or Nymph, or Goddess, at high tide 

of feast, 
In masque or pageant at my father's 

court. 
We sent mine host to purchase female 

gear; 
He brought it, and himself, a sight to 

shake 
The midriff of despair with laughter, 

holp 
To lace us up, till, each, in maiden 

plumes 
We rustled : him we gave a costly bribe 
To guerdon silence, mounted our good 

steeds, 
And boldly ventured on the liberties. 

We follow' d up the river as we rode, 
And rode till midnight when the col- 
lege lights 
Began to glitter firefly-like in copse 
And linden alley : then we past an 

arch, 
Whereon a woman-statue rose with 

wings 
From four wing'd horses dark against 

the stars ; 
And some inscription ran along the 
front, 



THE PRINCESS: 



But deep in shadow : further on we 

gain'd 
A little street half garden and half 

house ; 
But scarce could hear each other speak 

for noise 
Of clocks and chimes, like silver ham- 
mers falling 
On silver anvils, and the splash and stir 
Of fountains spouted up and showering 

down 
In meshes of the jasmine and the rose : 
And all about us peal'd the nightingale, 
Rapt in her song, and careless of the 



There stood a bust of Pallas for a 

sign, 
By two sphere lamps blazon'd like 

Heaven and Earth 
With constellation and with continent, 
Above an entry : riding in, we call'd ; 
A plump-arm'd Ostleress and a stable 

wench 
Came running at the call, and help'd 

us down. 
Then stept a buxom hostess forth, and 

sail'd, 
Full-blown, before us into rooms which 

gave 
Upon a pillar'd porch, the bases lost 
In laurel : her we ask'd of that and this, 
And who were tutors. ' ' Lady Blanche, ' ' 

she said, 
"And Lady Psyche." "Which was 

"prettiest, 
Best - natured ? " " Lady Psyche. " 

" Hers are we," 
One voice, we cried ; and I sat down 

and wrote, 
In such a hand as when a field of corn 
Bows all its ears before the roaring East: 

" Three ladies of the Northern em- 
pire pray 
Your Highness would enroll them with 

your own, 
As Lady Psyche's pupils." # 

This I seal'd : 
The seal was Cupid bent above a scroll, 
And o'er his head Uranian Venus hung, 
And raised the blinding bandage from 

his eyes : 
I gave the letter to be sent with dawn ; 



And then to bed, where half in doze I 
seem'd 

To float about a glimmering night, and 
watch 

A full sea glazed with muffled moon- 
light, swell 

On some dark shore just seen that it 
was rich. 

As thro' the land at eve we went, 

And pluck'd the ripen'd ears, 
We fell out, my wife and I, 
O we fell out I know not why, 
And kiss'd again with tears. 

For when we came where lies the child 

We lost in other years, 
There above the little grave, 
O there above the little grave, 

We kiss'd again with tears. 



II. 

At break of day the College Portress 

came : 
She brought us Academic silks, in hue 
The lilac, with a silken hood to each, 
And zoned with gold ; and now when 

these were on, 
And we as rich as moths from dusk 

cocoons, 
She, curtseying her obeisance, let us 

know 
The Princess Ida waited : out we 

paced, 
I first, and following thro' the porch 

that sang 
All round with laurel, issued in a court 
Compact of lucid marbles, boss'd with 

lengths 
Of classic frieze, with ample awnings 

Betwixt the pillars, and with great urns 

of flowers. 
The Muses and the Graces, group'd 

in threes, 
Enring'd a billowing fountain in the 

midst ; 
And here and there on lattice edges lay 
Or book or lute ; but hastily we past, 
And up a flight of stairs into the hall. 



A MEDLEY. 



There at a board by tome and paper 
sat, 

With two tame leopards couch'd be- 
side her throne, 

All beauty compass'd in a female form, 

The Princess ; liker to the inhabi- 
tant 

Of some clear planet close upon the 
Sun, 

Than our man's earth ; such eyes were 
in her head, 

And so much grace and power, breath- 
ing down 

From over her arch'd brows, with every 
turn 

Lived thro' her to the tips of her long 
hands, 

And to her feet. She rose her height, 
and said : 

" We give you welcome : not with- 
out redound 

Of use and glory t© yourselves ye come, 

The first-fruits of the stranger : after- 
time, 

And that full voice which circles round 
the grave, 

Will rank, you nobly, mingled up with 
me. 

What ! are the ladies of your land so 
tall?" 

" We of the court," said Cyril. " From 
the court," 

She answer'd, " then ye know the 
Prince?" and he : 

" The climax of his age ! as. tho' there 
were 

One rose in all the world, your High- 
ness that, 

He worships your ideal." She replied : 

" We scarcely thought in our own hall 
to hear 

This barren verbiage, current among 
men, 

Like coin, the tinsel clink of compli- 
ment. 

Your flight from out your bookless 
wilds would seem 

As arguing love of knowledge and of 
power ; 

Your language proves you still the 
child. Indeed, 

We dream not of him : when we set 
our hand 



To this great work, we purposed with 

ourselves 
Never to wed. You likewise will do 

well, 
Ladies, in entering here, to cast and 

fling 
The tricks, which make us toys of men, 

that so, 
Some future time, if so indeed you will, 
You may with those self-styled our 

lords ally 
Your fortunes, justlier balanced, scale 

with scale." 

At those high words, we conscious 
of ourselves, 

Perused the matting ; then an officer 

Rose up, and read the statutes, such 
as these : 

Not for three years to correspond with 
home ; 

Not for three years to cross the liber- 
ties : 

Not for three years to speak with any 
men ; 

And many more, which hastily sub- 
scribed, 

We enter'd on the boards : and " Now," 
she cried, 

" Ye are green wood, see ye warp not. 
Look, our hall ! 

Our statues ! — not of those that men 
desire, 

Sleek Odalisques, or oracles of mode, 

Nor stunted squaws of West or East ; 
but she 

That taught the Sabine how to rule, 
and she 

The foundress of the Babylonian wall, 

The Carian Artemisia strong in war, 

The Rhodope, that built the pyramid, 

Clelia, Cornelia, with the Palmyrene 

That fought Aurelian, and the Roman 
brows 

Of Agrippina. Dwell with these, and 
lose 

Convention, since to look on noble 
forms 

Makes noble thro' the sensuous organ- 
ism 

That which is higher. O lift your na- 
tures up : 

Embrace our aims : work out your 
freedom. Girls, 



THE PRINCESS: 



Knowledge is now no more a fountain 
Beard : 

Drink deep, until the habits of the 
slave, 

The sins of emptiness, gossip and spite 

And slander, die. Better not be at all 

Than not be noble. Leave us : you 
may go : 

To-day the Lady Psyche will harangue 

The fresh arrivals of the week before ; 

For they press in from all the provin- 
ces, 

And fill the hive." 

She spoke, and bowing waved 

Dismissal : back again we crost the 
court 

To Lady Psyche's : as we enter'd in, 

There sat along the forms, like morn- 
ing doves 

That sun their milky bosoms on the 
thatch, 

A patient range of pupils ; she herself 

Erect behind a desk of satin-wood, 

A quick brunette, well-moulded, fal- 
con-eyed, 

And on the hither side, or so she 
look'd, 

Of twenty summers. At her left, a 
child, 

In shining draperies, headed like a star, 

Her maiden babe, a double April old, 

Aglai'a slept. We sat : the Lady 
glanced : 

Then Florian, but no livelier than the 
dame 

That whisper'd " Asses' ears " among 
the sedge, 

"My sister." "Comely too by all 
that 's fair," 

Said Cyril. " O hush, hush ! " and 
she began. 

" This world was once a fluid haze 

of light, 
Till toward the centre set the starry 

tides, 
And eddied into suns, that wheeling 

cast 
The planets: then the monster, then 

the man ; 
Tattoo'd or woaded, winter-clad in 

skins, 
Raw from the prime, and crushing 

down his mate ; 



As yet we find in barbarous isles, and 

here 
Among the lowest." 

Thereupon she took 
A bird's-eye view of all the ungracious 

past ; 
Glanced at the legendary Amazon 
As emblematic of a nobler age ; 
Appraised the Lycian custom, spoke 

of those 
That lay at wine with Lar and Lucumo ; 
Ran down the Persian, Grecian, Ro- 
man lines 
Of empire, and the woman's state in 

each, 
How far from just ; till warming with 

her theme 
She fnl mined out her scorn of laws 

Salique 
And little-footed China, touch'd on 

Mahomet 
With much contempt, and came to 

chivalry : 
When some respect, however slight, 

was paid 
To woman, superstition all awry: 
However then commenced the dawn : 

a beam 
Had slanted forward, falling in a land 
Of promise ; fruit would follow. Deep, 

indeed, 
Their debt of thanks to her who first 

had dared 
To leap the rotten pales of prejudice, 
Disyoke their necks from custom, and 

asse/t 
None lordlier than themselves but 

that which made 
Woman and man. She had founded ; 

they must build. 
Here might they learn whatever men 

were taught : 
Let them not fear : some said their 

heads were less : 
Some men's were small ; not they the 

least of men ; 
For often fineness compel 
Besides the brain was like the hand, 

and . i 
With using; thence the man's, if more 

was more ; 
He took advantage of his strength to be 
First in the field : some ages had been 

lost; 



A MEDLEY. 



123 



But woman ripenM earlier, and her life 
Was longer ; and albeit their glorious 

names 
Were fewer, scatter'd stars, yet since 

in truth 
The highest is the measure of the man, 
And not the Kaffir, Hottentot, Malay, 
Nor those horn-handed breakers of the 

glebe, 
But Homer, Plato, Verulam ; even so 
With woman : and in arts of govern- 
ment 
Elizabeth and others ; arts of war 
The peasant Joan and others ; arts of 

grace 
Sappho and others vied with any man : 
And, last not least, she who had left 

her place, 
And bow'd her state to them, that they 

might grow 
To use and power on this Oasis, lapt 
In the arms of leisure, sacred from the 

blight 
Of ancient influence and scorn." 

At last 
She rose upon a wind of prophecy 
Dilating on the future ; "everywhere 
Two heads in council, two beside the 

hearth, 
Two in the tangled business of the 

world, 
Two in the liberal offices of life, 
Two plummets dropt for one to sound 

the abyss 
Of science, and the secrets of the mind : 
Musician, painter, sculptor, critic, 

more : 
And everywhere the broad and boun- 
teous Earth 
Should bear a double growth of those 

rare souls, 
Poets, whose thoughts enrich the 

blood of the world." 

She ended here, and beckon'd us : 
the rest 
Parted ; and, glowing full-faced wel- 
come, she 
Began to address us, and was moving on 
In gratulation, till as when a boat 
Tacks, and the slacken'd sail flaps, all 

her voice 
Faltering and'fluttering in her throat, 
she cried, 



"My brother!" "Well, my sister." 

" O," she said, 
" What do you here ? and in this dress? 

and these ? 
Why who are these ? a wolf within the 

fold! 
A pack of wolves ! the Lord be gracious 

to me ! 
A plot, a plot, a plot to ruin all ! " 
" No plot, no plot," he answer'd. 

" Wretched boy, 
How saw you not the inscription on 

the gate, 
Let no man enter in on pain of 

DEATH? " 

"And if I had," he answer'd, "who 

could think 
The softer Adams of your Academe, 
O sister, Sirens tho' they be, were such 
As chanted on the blanching bones of 

men ?" 
" But you will find it otherwise," she 

said. 
" You jest : ill jesting with edge-tools ! 

my vow 
Binds me to speak, and O that iron will, 
That axelike edge unturnable, our 

Head, 
The Princess." "Well then, Psyche, 

take my life, 
And nail me like a weasel on a grange 
For warning : bury me beside the gate, 
And cut this epitaph above my bones ; 
Here lies a brother by a sister slain, 
A II for the common good of woman- 
kind." 
" Let me die too," said Cyril, "having 

seen 
And heard the Lady Psyche." 

I struck in : 
"Albeit so mask'd, Madam, I love the 

truth ; 
Receive it ; and in me behold the 

Prince 
Your countryman, affianced years ago 
To the Lady Ida : here, for here she 

was, 
And thus (what other way was left) I 

came." 
" O Sir, () Prince, I have no country ; 

none ; 
If any, this ; but none. Whate'er I 

was 
Disrooted, what I am is grafted here. 



124 



THE PRINCESS. 



Affianced, Sir? love-whispers may not 
breathe 

Within this vestal limit, and how 
should I, 

Who am not mine, say, live : the thun- 
derbolt 

Hangs silent ; but prepare : I speak ; 
it falls." 

"Yet pause," I said: "for that in- 
scription there, 

I think no more of deadly lurks therein, 

Than in a clapper clapping in a garth, 

To scare the fowl from fruit : if more 
there be, 

If more and acted on, what follows? 
war ; 

Your own work marr'd : for this your 
Academe, 

Whichever side be Victor, in the halloo 

Will topple to the trumpet down, and 
pass 

With all fair theories only made to gild 

A storm'ess summer." " Let the 
Princess judge 

Of that," she said: "farewell, Sir — 
and to you. 

I shudder at the sequel, but I go." 

" Are you that Lady Psyche," I re- 
join 'd, 

" The fifth in line from that old Florian, 

Yet hangs his portrait in my father's 
hall 

(The gaunt old Baron with his beetle 
brow 

Sun-shaded in the heat of dusty fights) 

As he bestrode my Grandsire, when he 
fell, 

And all else fled : we point to it, and 
we say, 

The loyal warmth of Florian is not 
cold, 

But branches current yet in kindred 
veins." 

"Are you that Psyche," Florian add- 
ed, " she 

With whom I sang about the morning 
hills, 

Flung ball, flew kite, and raced the 
purple fly, 

And snared the squirrel of the glen ? 
are you 

That Psyche, wont to bind my throb- 
bing brow, 



To smooth my pillow, mix the foam- 
ing draught 
Of fever, tell me pleasant tales, and 

read 
My sickness down to happy dreams? 

are you 
That brother-sister Psyche, both ii. 

one? 
You were that Psyche, but what ar % 

you now? " 
" You are that Psyche," Cyril said, 

" for whom 
I would be that forever which I seem, 
Woman, if I might sit beside your feet^ 
And glean your scatter'd sapience." 

Then once more, 
" Are you that Lady Psyche," I began, 
" That on her bridal morn before she 

past 
From all her old companions, when 

the king 
Kiss'd her pale cheek, declared that 

ancient ties 
Would still be dear beyond the south- 
ern hills ; 
That were there any of our people there 
In want or peril, there was one to hear 
And help them : look ! for such are 

these and I." 
" Are you that Psyche," Florian ask'd, 

" to whom, 
In gentler days, your arrow-wounded 

fawn 
Came flying while you sat beside the 

well? 
The creature laid his muzzle on your 

lap, 
And sobb'd, and you sobb'd with it, 

and the blood 
Was sprinkled on your kirtle, and you 

wept. 
That was fawn's blood, not brother's, 

yet you wept. 
O by the bright head of my little niece, 
You were that Psyche, and what are 

you now? " 
"You are that Psyche," Cyril said 

again, 
" The mother of the sweetest little 

maid, 
That ever crow'd for kisses." 

" Out upon it ! " 
She answer'd, " peace ! and why should 
I not play 



A MEDLEY. 



125 



The Spartan Mother with emotion, be 

The Lucius Junius Brutus of my kind ? 

Him you call great : he for the com- 
mon weal, 

The fading politics of mortal Rome, 

As I might slay this child, if good need 
were, 

Slew both his sons : and I, shall I, on 
whom 

The secular emancipation turns 

Of half this world, be swerved from 
right to save 

A prince, a brother? a little will I 
yield. 

Best so, perchance, for us, and well for 
you. 

O hard, when love and duty clash ! I 
fear 

My conscience will not count me fleck- 
less ; yet — 

Hear my conditions : promise (other- 
wise 

You perish) as you came to slip away, 

To-day, to-morrow, soon : it shall be 
said, 

These women were too barbarous, 
would not learn ; 

They fled, who might have shamed us : 
promise, all." 

What could we else, we promised 

each ; and she, 
Like some wild creature newly caged, 

commenced 
A to-and-fro, so pacing till she paused 
By Florian ; holding out her lily arms 
Took both his hands, and smiling 

faintly said : 
" I knew you at the first : tho' you 

have grown 
You scarce have alter' d : I am sad and 

glad 
To see you, Florian. / give thee to 

death, 
My brother ! it was duty spoke, not I. 
My needful seeming harshness, pardon 

it. 
Our mother, is she well ? " 

With that she kiss'd 
His forehead, then, a moment after, 

clung 
About him, and betwixt them blos- 

som'd up 
From out a common vein of memory 



Sweet household talk, and phrases of 

the hearth, 
And far allusion, till the gracious dews 
Began to glisten and to fall : and while 
They stood, so rapt, we gazing, came a 

voice, 
" I brought a message here from Lady 

Blanche.' 1 
Back started she, and turning round 

we saw 
The Lady Blanche's daughter where 

she stood, 
Melissa, with her hand upon the lock, 
A rosy blonde, and in a college gown, 
That clad her like an April daffodilly 
(Her mother's color) with her lips apart, 
And all her thoughts as fair within her 

eyes, 
As bottom agates seen to wave and float 
In crystal currents of clear morningseas. 

So stood that same fair creature at 

the door. 
Then Lady Psyche, " Ah — Melissa — 

you ! 
You heard us ? " and Melissa, " O 

pardon me ! 
I heard, I could not help it, did not 

wish : 
But, dearest Lady, pray you fear me 

not, 
Nor think I bear that heart within my 

• breast, 
To give three gallant gentlemen to 

death." 
" I trust you," said the other, " for we 

two 
Were always friends, none closer, elm 

and vine : 
But yet your mother's jealous temper- 
ament — 
Let not your prudence, dearest, drowse, 

or prove 
The Danaid of a leaky vase, for fear 
This whole foundation ruin, and I lose 
My honor, these their lives." ''Ah, 

fear me not," 
Replied Melissa; "no — I would not tell, 
No, not for all Aspasia's cleverness, 
No, not to answer, Madam, all those 

hard things 
That Sheba came to ask of Solomon." 
" Be it so," the other, " that we still 

may lead 



126 



THE PRINCESS: 



The new light up, and culminate in 

peace, 
For Solomon may come to Shebayet." 
Said Cyril, " Madam, he the wisest man 
Feasted the woman wisest then, in halls 
Of Lebanonian cedar : nor should you 
(Tho' madam you should answer, we 

would ask) 
Less welcome find among us, if you 

came 
Among us, debtors for our lives to you, 
Myself for something more. " He said 

not what, 
But "Thanks," she answer'd, "go: 

we have been too long 
Together : keep your hoods about the 

face ; 
They do so that affect abstraction here. 
Speak little ; mix not with the rest ; 

and hold 
Your promise : all, I trust, may yet be 

well." 

We turn'd to go, but Cyril took the 
child, 
And held her round the knees against 

his waist, 
And blew the swoll'n cheek of a trum- 
peter, 
While Psyche watch'd them, smiling, 

and the child 
Push'd her flat hand against his face 

and laugh'd ; ■ 

And thus our conference closed. 

And then we strolled 
For half the day thro' stately theatres 
Bench'd crescent-wise. In each we 

sat, we heard 
The grave Professor. On the lecture 

slate 
The circle rounded under female hands 
With flawless demonstration : follow'd 

then 
A classic lecture, rich in sentiment, 
With scraps of thundrous Epic lilted 

out 
By violet-hooded Doctors, elegies 
And quoted odes, and jewels five- 
words-long 
That on the stretch'd forefinger of all 

Time 
Sparkle forever : then we dipt in all 
That treats of whatsoever is, the state, 
The total chronicles of man, the mind, 



The morals, something of the frame, 

the rock, 
The star, the bird, the fish, the shell, 

the flower, 
Electric, chemic laws, and all the rest, 
And whatsoever can be taught and 

known ; 
Till like three horses that have broken 

fence, 
And glutted all night long breast-deep 

in corn, 
We issued gorged with knowledge, and 

I spoke : 
" Why, Sirs, they do all this as well as 

we." 
"They hunt old trails," said Cyril, 

" very well ; 
But when did woman ever yet in- 
vent? " 
" Ungracious ! " answer'd Florian, 

" have you learnt 
No more from Psyche's lecture, you 

that talk'd 
The trash that made me sick, and al- 
most sad ? " 
" O trash," he said, " but with a kernel 

in it. 
Should I not call her wise, who made 

me wise ? 
And learnt ? I learnt more from her 

in a flashy 
Than if my brainpan were an empty 

hull, 
And every Muse tumbled a science in. 
A thousand hearts lie fallow in these 

halls, 
And round these halls a thousand baby 

loves 
Fly twanging headless arrows at the 

hearts, 
Whence follows many a vacant pang ; 

but O 
With me, Sir, enter' d in the bigger boy, 
The Head of all the golden-shafted 

firm, 
The long-limb'd lad that had a Psyche 

too ; 
He cleft me thro' the stomacher ; and 

now 
What think you of it, Florian ? do I 

chase 
The substance or the shadow ? will it 

hold ? 
I have no sorcerer's malison on me, 



A MEDLEY. 



127 



No ghostly hauntings like his High- 
ness. I 
Flatter myself that always everywhere 
I know the substance when I see it. 

Well, 
Are castles shadows ? Three of them ? 

Is she 
The sweet proprietress a shadow ? If 

not, 
Shall those three castles patch my tat- 
ter' d coat ? 
For dear are those three castles to my 

wants, 
And dear is sister Psyche to my 

heart, 
And two dear things are one of double 

worth, 
And much I might have said, but that 

my zone 
Unmann'd me : then the Doctors ! O 

to hear 
The Doctors ! O to watch the thirsty 

plants 
Imbibing ! once or twice I thought to 

roar, 
To break my chain, to shake my mane : 

but thou, 
Modulate me, Soul of mincing mim- 
icry ! 
Make liquid treble of that bassoon, my 

throat ; . 
Abase those eyes that ever loved to 

meet 
Star-sisters answering under crescent 

brows ; 
Abate the stride, which speaks of man, 

and loose 
A flying charm of blushes o'er this 

cheek, 
Where they like swallows coming out 

of time 
Will wonder why they came : but hark 

the bell 
For dinner, let us go ! " 

And in we stream'd 
Among the columns, pacing staid and 

still 
By twos and threes, till all from end to 

end 
With beauties every shade of brown 

and fair, 
In colors gayer than the morning mist, 
The long hall glitter'd like a bed of 

flowers. 



How might a man not wander from his 

wits 
Pierced thro' with eyes, but that I 

kept mine own 
Intent on her, who rapt in glorious 

dreams, 
The second-sight of some Astraean age, 
Sat compass'd with professors : they, 

the while, 
Discuss'd a doubt and tost it to and fro : 
A clamor thicken'd, mixt with inmost 

terms 
Of art and science : Lady Blanche 

alone 
Of faded form and haughtiest linea- 
ments, 
With all her Autumn tresses falsely 

brown, 
Shot sidelong daggers at us, a tiger-cat 
In act to spring. 

At last a solemn grace 
Concluded, and we sought the gar- 
dens : there 
One walk'd reciting by herself, and one 
In this hand held a volume as to read, 
And smoothed a petted peacock down 

with that : 
Some to a low song oar'd a shallop by, 
Or under arches of the marble bridge 
Hung, shadow' d from the heat : some 

hid and sought 
In the orange thickets : others tost a 

ball 
Above the fountain-jets, and back again 
With laughter : others lay about the 

lawns, 
Of the older sort, and murmur' d that 

their May 
Was passing : what was learning unto 

them? 
They wish'd to marry ; they could rule 

a house ; 
Men hated learned women : but we 

three 
Sat muffled like the Fates ; and often 

came 
Melissa hitting all we saw with shafts 
Of gentle satire, kin to charity, 
That harm'd not : then day droopt ; 

the chapel bells 
Call'd us : we left the walks ; we mixt 

with those 
Six hundred maidens clad in purest 

white, 



128 



THE PRINCESS: 



Before two streams of light from wall 

to wall, 
While the great organ almost burst 

his pipes, 
Groaning for power, and rolling thro' 

the court 
A long melodious thunder to the sound 
Of solemn psalms, and silver litanies, 
The work of Ida, to call down from 

Heaven 
A blessing on her labors for the world. 

Sweet and low, sweet and low, 

Wind of the western sea, 
Low, low, breathe and blow, 

Wind of the western sea ! 
Over the rolling waters go, 
Come from the dying moon, and blow, 

Blow him again to me ; 
While my little one, while my pretty 
one, sleeps. 

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, 
Father will come to thee soon ; 

Rest, rest, on mother's breast, 
Father will come to thee soon ; 

Father will come to his babe in the nest, 

Silver sails all out of the west 
Under the silver moon : 

Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty 
one, sleep. 



III. 

Morn in the white wake of the 

morning star 
Came furrowing all the orient into gold. 
We rose, and each by other drest with 

care 
Descended to the court that lay three 

parts 
In shadow, but the Muses' heads were 

touch'd 
Above the darkness from their native 

East. 

There while we stood beside the 
fount, and watch' d 

Or seem'd to watch the dancing bub- 
ble, approach'd 

Melissa, tinged with wan from lack of 
sleep, 



Or grief, and glowing round her dewy 

eyes 
The circled Iris of a night of tears ; 
"And fly," she cried, "O fly, while 

yet you may ! 
My mother knows " : and when I ask'd 

her " how," 
" My fault," she wept, " my fault ! and 

yet not mine ; 
Yet mine in part. O hear me, pardon 

me. 
My mother, 'tis her wont from night 

to night 
To rail at Lady Psyche and her side. 
She says the Princess should have been 

the Head, 
Herself and Lady Psyche the two arms ; 
And so it was agreed when first they 

came : 
But Lady Psyche was the right hand 

now, 
And she the left, or not, or seldom 

used ; 
Hers more than half the students, all 

the. love. 
And so last night she fell to canvass 

you : 
"Her countrywomen ! she did not envy 

her. 
Who ever saw such wild barbarians ? 
Girls ? — more like men U" and at these 

words the snake, 
My secret, seem'd to stir within my 

breast ; 
And O, Sirs, could I help it, but my 

cheek 
Began to burn and burn, and her lynx 

eye 
To fix and make me hotter, till she 

laugh 'd : 
" O marvellously modest maiden, you ! 
Men ! girls, like men ! why, if they had 

been men 
You need not set your thoughts in ru- 
bric thus 
For wholesale comment." Pardon, I 

am shamed 
That I must needs repeat for my excuse 
What looks so little graceful : " men " 

(for still 
My mother went revolving on the 

word) 
" And so they are, — very like men in- 
deed — 



A MEDLEY. 



129 



And with that woman closeted for 

hours ! " 
Then came these dreadful words out 

one by one, 
" Why — these — are — men " : I 

shudder'd : " and you know it." 
" O ask me nothing," I said: "And 

she knows too, 
And she conceals it." So my mother 

clutch'd 
The truth at once, but with no word 

from me ; 
And now thus early risen she goes to 

inform 
The Princess : Lady Psyche will be 

crush'd ; 
But you may yet be saved, and there- 
fore fly : 
But heal me with your pardon ere you 

go." 

" What pardon, sweet Melissa, for a 

blush?" 
Said Cyril : " Pale one, blush again : 

than wear 
Those lilies, better blush our lives 

away. 
Yet let us breathe for one hour more in 

Heaven," 
He added, " lest some classic Angel 

speak 
In scorn of us, ' they mounted, Gany- 

medes, 
To tumble, Vulcans, on the second 

morn.' 
But I will melt this marble into wax 
To yield us farther furlough " : and he 

went. 

Melissa shook her doubtful curls, 

and thought 
He scarce would prosper. " Tell us," 

Florian ask'd, 
" How grew this feud betwixt the right 

and left." 
" O long ago," she said, " betwixt 

these two 
Division smoulders hidden : 't is my 

mother, 
Too jealous, often fretful as the wind 
Pent in a crevice : much I bear with 

her: 
I never knew my father, but she says 
(God help her) she was wedded to a fool ; 



And still she rail'd against the state of 
things. 

She had the care of Lady Ida's youth, 

And from the Queen's decease she 
brought her up. 

But when your sister came she won the 
heart 

Of Ida : they were still together, grew 

(For so they said themselves) inoscu- 
lated ; 

Consonant chords that shiver to one 
note ; 

One mind in all things : yet my mother 
still 

Affirms your Psyche thieved her theo- 
ries, 

And angled with them for her pupil's 
love : 

She calls her plagiarist ; I know not 
what: 

But I must go : I dare not tarry," and 
light, 

As flies the shadow of a bird, she fled. 

Then murmur'd Florian, gazing after 

her : 
" An open-hearted maiden, true and 

pure. 
If I could love, why this were she : 

how pretty 
Her blushing was, and how she blush'd 

again, 
As if to close with Cyril's random 

wish : 
Not like your Princess cramm'd with 

erring pride, 
Nor like poor Psyche whom she drags 

in tow." 

"The crane," I said, "may chatter 
of the crane, 

The dove may murmur of the dove, 
but I 

An eagle clang an eagle to the sphere. 

My princess, O my princess ! true she 
errs, 

But in her own grand way : being her- 
self 

Three times more noble than three- 
score of men, 

She sees herself in every woman else, 

And so she wears her error like a crown 

To blind the truth and me : for her, 
and her, 



i 3 o 



THE PRINCESS: 



Hebes are they to hand ambrosia, 

mix 
The nectar ; but — ah she — whene'er 

she moves 
The Samian Here rises and she speaks 
A Memnon smitten with the morning 

Sun." 

So saying from the court we paced, 

and gain'd 
The terrace ranged along the Northern 

front, 
And leaning there on those balusters, 

high 
Above the empurpled champaign, 

drank the gale 
That blown about the foliage under- 
neath, 
And sated with the innumerable rose, 
Beat balm upon our eyelids. Hither 

came 
Cyril, and yawning " O hard task," he 

cried : 
" No fighting shadows here ! I forced 

a way 
Thro' solid opposition crabb'd and 

gnarl'd. 
Better to clear prime forests, heave and 

thump 
A league of street in summer solstice 

down, 
Than hammer at this reverend gentle- 
woman. 
I knock'd and, bidden, enter'd ; found 

her there 
At point to move, and settled in her 

eyes 
The green malignant light of coming 

storm. 
Sir, I was courteous, every phrase well- 

oil'd, 
As man's could be ; yet maiden-meek 

I pray'd 
Concealment : she demanded who we 

were, 
And why we came ? I fabled nothing 

fair, 
But, your example pilot, told her all. 
Up went the hush'd amaze of hand and 

eye. 
But when I dwelt upon your old affi- 
ance, 
She answer'd sharply that I talk'd 

astray. 



I urged the fierce inscription on the 

gate, 
And our three lives. True — we had 

limed ourselves, 
With open eyes, and we must take the 

chance. 
But such extremes, I told her, well 

might harm 
The woman's cause. " Not more than 

now," she said, 
"So puddled as it is with favoritism." 
I tried the mother's heart. Shame 

might befall 
Melissa, knowing, saying not she knew : 
Her answer was, " Leave me to deal 

with that." 
I spoke of war to come and many 

deaths, 
And she replied, her duty was to speak, 
And duty duty, clear of consequences. 
I grew discouraged, Sir ; but since I 

knew 
No rock so hard but that a little wave 
May beat admission in a thousand 

years, 
I recommenced : " Decide not ere you 

pause. 
I find you here but in the second place 
Some say the third — the authentic 

foundress you. 
I offer boldly : we will seat you high- 
est : 
Wink at our advent : help my prince 

to gain 
His rightful bride, and here I promise 

you 
Some palace in our land, where you 

shall reign 
The head and heart of all our fair she- 
world, 
And your great name flow on with 

broadening time 
Forever." Well, she balanced this a 

little, 
And told me she would answer us to- 
day, 
Meantime be mute : thus much, nor 

more I gain'd." 

He ceasing, came a message from the 
Head. 
" That afternoon the Princess rode to 

take 
The dip of certain strata to the North. 



A MEDLEY. 



131 



Would we go with her? we should find 

the land 
Worth seeing ; and the river made a fall 
Out yonder " : then she pointed on to 

where 
A double hill ran up his furrowy forks 
Beyond the thick-leaved platans of the 

vale. 

Agreed to, this, the day fled on thro' 

all 
Its range of duties to the appointed 

hour. 
Then summon'd to the porch we went. 

She stood 
Among her maidens, higher by the 

head, 
Her back against a pillar, her foot on 

one 
Of those tame leopards. Kittenlike 

he roll'd 
And paw'd about her sandal. I drew 

near; 
I gazed. On a sudden my strange 

•seizure came 
Upon me, the weird vision of our house : 
The Princess Idaseem'd ;i hollowshow, 
Her gay-furr'd cats a painted fantasy, 
Her college and her maidens, empty 

masks, 
And I myself (Tie shadow of a dream, 
For all things were and were not. Yet 

I felt 
My heart beat thick with passion and 

with awe ; 
Then from my breast the involuntary 

sigh 
Brake, as she smote me with the light 

of eyes 
That lent my knee desire to kneel, and 

shook 
My pulses, tilT to horse we got, and so 
Went forth in long retinue following up 
The river as it narrow'd to the hills. 

I rode beside her and to me she said : 
" O friend, we trust that you esteem'd 

us not 
Too harsh to your companion yester- 

morn ; 
Unwillingly we spake." "No — not 

to her," 
I answer'd, "but to one of whom we 

spake 



Your Highness might have seem'd the 
thing you say." 

" Again ? " she cried, " are you ambas- 
sadresses 

From him to me ? we give you, being 
strange, 

A license : speak, and let the topic die." 

I stammer' d that I knew him — could 
have wish'd — 

" Our king expects — was there no pre- 
contract? 

There is no truer-hearted — ah, you 
seem 

All he prefigured, and he could not see 

The bird of passage flying south but 
long'd 

To follow: surely,if your Highness keep 

Your purport, you will shock him ev'n 
to death, 

Or baser courses, children of despair." 

" Poor boy," she said, " can he not 

read — no books? 
Quoit, tennis, ball — no games? nor 

deals in that 
Which men delight in, martial exer- 
cise? 
To nurse a blind ideal like a girl, 
Methinks he seems no better than a 

girl; 
As girls were once, as we ourselves 

have been : 
We had our dreams ; perhaps he mixt 

with them : 
We touch on our dead self, nor shun 

to do it, 
Being other — since we learnt our 

meaning here, 
To lift the woman's fall'n divinity 
Upon an even pedestal with man." 

She paused, and added with a haugh- 
tier smile : 

" And as to precontracts, we move, my 
friend, 

At no man's beck, but know ourselves 
and thee, 

O Vashti, noble Vashti ! Summon'd 
out 

She kept her state, and left the drunk- 
en king 

To brawl at Shushan underneath the 
palms." 



132 



THE PRINCESS: 



"Alas your Highness breathes full 

East," I said, 
" On that which leans to you. I know 

the Prince, 
I prize his truth : and then how vast a 

work 
To assail this gray pre-eminence of 

„ man ! 
You grant me license ; might I use it ? 

think. 
Ere half be done perchance your life 

may fail ; 
Then comes the feebler heiress of your 

plan, 
And takes and ruins all ; and thus your 

pains 
May only make that footprint upon 

sand 
Which old-recurring waves of prejudice 
Resmooth to nothing : might I dread 

that you, 
With only Fame for spouse and your 

great deeds 
For issue, yet may live in vain, and 

miss, 
Meanwhile, what every woman counts 

her due, 
Love, children, happiness?" 

And she exclaim'd, 
"Peace, you young savage of the 

Northern wild ! 
What ! tho' your Prince's love were 

like a God's, 
Have we not made ourself the sacrifice ? 
You are bold indeed : we are not talk'd 

to thus : 
Yet will we say for children, would 

they grew 
Like field-flowers everywhere ! we like 

them well : 
But children die ; and let me tell you, 

girl, 
Howe'er you babble, great deeds can- 
not die : 
They with the sun and moon renew 

their light 
Forever, blessing those that look on 

them. 
Children — that men may pluck them 

from our hearts, 
Kill us with pity, break us with our- 
selves — 
O — children — there is nothing upon 

earth 



More miserable than she that has a son 
And sees him err : nor would we work 

for fame ; 
Tho' she perhaps might reap the ap- 
plause of Great, 
Who learns the one pou sto whence 

after-hands 
May move the world, tho' she herself 

effect 
But little : wherefore up and act, nor 

shrink 
For fear our solid aim be dissipated 
By frail successors. Would, indeed, 

we had been, 
In lieu of many mortal flies, a race 
Of giants living, each, a thousand years, 
That we might see our own work out, 

and watch 
The sandy footprint harden into stone." 

I answer'd nothing, doubtful in my- 
self 

If that strange Poet-princess with her 
grand ■ 

Imaginations might at all be won. 

And she broke out interpreting my 
thoughts : 

" No doubt we seem a kind of mon- 
ster to you ; 
We are used to that :*for women, up 

till this 
Cramp'd under worse than South-sea- 
isle taboo, 
Dwarfs of the gynasceium, fail so far 
In high desire, they know not, cannot 

guess 
How much their welfare is a passion 

to us. 
If we could give them surer, quicker 

proof — 
O if our end were less achievable 
By slow approaches, than by single act 
Of immolation, any phase of death, 
We were as prompt to spring against 

the pikes, 
Or down the fiery gulf as talk of it, 
To compass our dear sister's liberties." 

She bow'd as if to veil a noble tear ; 
And up we came to where the river 

sloped 
To plunge in cataract, shattering on 
black blocks 



A MEDLEY. 



133 



A breadth of thunder. O'er it shook 

the woods, 
And danced the color, and, below, 

stuck out 
The bones of some vast bulk that lived 

and roar'd 
Before man was. She gazed awhile 

and said, 
" As these rude bones to us, are we to 

her 
That will be." "Dare we dream of 

that," I ask'd, 
" Which wrought us, as the workman 

and his work, 
That practice betters ? " " How," she 

cried, " you love 
The metaphysics ! read and earn our 

prize, 
A golden broach : beneath an emerald 

plane 
Sits Diotima, teaching him that died 
Of hemlock ; our device ; wrought to 

the life ; 
She rapt upon her subject, he on 

her : 
For there are schools for all." "And 

yet," I said, 
" Methinks I have not found among 

them all 
One anatomic." " Nay, we thought 

of that," 
She answer'd, "but it pleased us not : 

in truth 
We shudder but to dream our maids 

should ape 
Those monstrous males that carve the 

living hound, 
And cram him with the fragments of 

the grave, 
Or in the dark dissolving human heart, 
And holy secrets of this microcosm, 
Dabbling a shameless hand with 

shameful jest, 
Encarnalize their spirits : yet we know 
Knowledge is knowledge, and this 

matter hangs : 
Howbeit ourself, foreseeing casualty, 
Nor willing men should come among 

us, learnt, 
For many weary moons before we came, 
This craft of healing. Were you sick, 

ourself 
Would tend upon you. To your ques- 
tion now, 



Which touches on the workman and 

his work. 
Let there be light and there was light : 

't is so : 
For was, and is, and will be, are but is ; 
And all creation is one act at once, 
The birth of light : but we that are not 

all, 
As parts, can see but parts, now this, 

now that, 
And live, perforce, from thought to 

thought, and make 
One act a phantom of succession : thus 
Our weakness somehow shapes the 

shadow, Time ; 
But in the shadow will we work, and 

mould 
The woman to the fuller day." 

She spake 
With kindled eyes : we rode a league 

beyond, 
And, o'er a bridge of pinewood cross- 
ing, came 
On flowery levels underneath the crag, 
Full of all beauty. " O how sweet," I 

said, 
(For I was half-oblivious of my mask,) 
" To linger here with one that loved 

us." "Yea," 
She answer'd, "or with fair philoso- 
phies 
That lift the fancy ; for indeed these 

fields 
Are lovely, lovelier not the Elysian 

lawns, 
Where paced the Demigods of old, and 

saw 
The soft white vapor streak the crowned 

towers 
Built to the Sun " : then, turning to 

her maids, 
"Pitch our pavilion here upon the 

sward ; 
Lay out the viands." At the word, 

they raised 
A tent of satin, elaborately wrought 
With fair Corinna's triumph ; here she 

stood, 
Engirt with many a florid maiden- 
cheek, 
The woman-conqueror ; woman-con- 

quer'd there 
The bearded Victor of ten-thousand 

hymns, 



134 



THE PRINCESS: 



And all the men mourn'd at his side : 

but we 
Set forth to climb ; then, climbing, 

Cyril kept 
With Psyche, with Melissa Florian, I 
With mine affianced. Many a little 

hand 
Glanced like a touch of sunshine on 

the rocks, 
Many a light foot shone like a jewel 

set 
In the dark crag : and then we turn'd, 

we wound 
About the cliffs, the copses, out and in, 
Hammering and clinking, chattering 

stony names 
Of shale and hornblende, rag and trap 

and tuff, 
Amygdaloid and trachyte, till the 

Sun 
Grew broader toward his death and 

fell, and all 
The rosy heights came out above the 

lawns. 



The splendor falls on castle walls 

And snowy summits old in story : 

The long light shakes across the 'akes 

And the wild cataract leaps in glory. 

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes 

flying, 
Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, 
dying, dying. 

O hark, O hear ! how thin and clear, 
And thinner, clearer, farther going ! 
O sweet and far from cliff and scar 
The horns of Elfland faintly blow- 
ing ! 
Blow, let us hear the purple glens re- 
plying : 
Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, 
dying, dying. 

O love, they die in yon rich sky, 

They faint on hill or field or river : 
Our echoes roll from soul to soul, 
And grow forever and forever. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes 

flying, 
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, 
dying, dying. 



IV. 

" There sinks the nebulous star we 

call the Sun, 
If that hypothesis of theirs be sound," 
Said Ida ; "let us down and rest " : 

and we 
Down from the lean and wrinkled pre- 
cipices, 
By every coppice-feather'd chasm and 

cleft, 
Dropt thro' the ambrosial gloom to 

where below 
No bigger than a glow-worm shone the 

tent 
Lamp-lit from the inner. Once she 

lean'd on me, 
Descending ; once or twice she lent 

her hand, 
And blissful palpitations in the blood, 
Stirring a sudden transport rose and 

fell. 

But when we planted level feet, and 

dipt 
Beneath the satin dome and enter'd in, 
There leaning deep in broider'd down 

we sank 
Our elbows : on a tripod in the midst 
A fragrant flame rose, and before us 

glow'd 
Fruit, blossom, viand, amber wine, and 

gold. 

Then she, " Let some one sing to us : 

lightlier move 
The minutes fledged with music " : and 

a maid, 
Of those beside her, smote her harp, 

and sang. 

" Tears, idle tears, I know not what 

they mean, 
Tears from the depth of some divine 

despair 
Rise in the heart, and gather to the 

eyes, 
In looking on the happy Autumn-fields, 
And thinking of the days that are no 

more. 

" Fresh as the first beam glittering 
on a sail, 
That brings our friends up from the 
underworld, 



A MEDLEY. 



135 



Sad as the last which reddens over one 
That sinks with all we love below the 

verge ; 
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no 

more. 

"Ah, sad and strange as in dark 

summer dawns 
The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds 
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes 
The casement slowly grows a glimmer- 

ing square ; 
So sad, so strange, the days that are 

no more. 

" Dear as remember'd kisses after 
death, 

And sweet as those by hopeless fancy 
feign 'd 

On lips that are for others ; deep as love, 

Deep as first love, and wild with all re- 
gret ; 

O Death in Life, the days that are no 
more." 

She ended with such passion that 

the tear, 
She sang of, shook and fell, an erring 

pearl 
Lost in her bosom : but with some 

disdain 
Answer'd the Princess : " If indeed 

there haunt 
About the moulder' d lodges of the Past 
So sweet a voice and vague, fatal to men, 
Well needs it we should cram our ears 

with wool 
And so pace by : but thine are fancies 

hatch'd 
In silken-folded idleness ; nor is it 
Wiser to weep a true occasion lost, 
But trim our sails, and let old bygones 

be, 
While down the streams that float us 

each and all 
To the issue, goes, like glittering bergs 

of ice, 
Throne after throne, and molten on 

the waste 
Becomes a cloud : for all things serve 

their time 
Toward that great year of equal mights 

and rights, 
Nor would I fight with iron laws, in 

the end 



Found golden : let the past be past ; 

let be 
Their cancelPd Babels : tho' the rough 

kex break 
The starr' d mosaic, and the wild goat 

hang 
Upon the shaft, and the wild fig-tree 

split 
Their monstrous idols, care not while 

we hear 
A trumpet in the distance pealing 

news 
Of better, and Hope, a poising eagle, 

burns 
Above the unrisen morrow" : then to 

me, 
" Know you no song of your own 

land," she said, 
" Not such as moans about the retro- 
spect, 
But deals with the other distance and 

the hues 
Of promise ; not a death's-head at the 

wine." 

Then I remember'd one myself had 
made, 

What time I watch'd the swallow wing- 
ing south 

From mine own land, part made long 
since, and part 

Now while I sang, and maidenlike as 
far 

As I could ape their treble, did I 
sing. 

" O Swallow, Swallow, flying, flying 

South, 
Fly to her, and fall upon her gilded 

eaves, 
And tell her, tell her what I tell to 

thee. 

"O tell her, Swallow, thou that 

knowest each, 
That bright and fierce and fickle is the 

South, 
And dark and true and tender is the 

North. 

" O Swallow, Swallow, if I could fol- 
low, and light 
Upon her lattice, I would pipe and trill, 
And cheep and twitter twenty million 
loves. 



136 



THE PRINCESS: 



" O were I thou that she might take 

me in, 
And lay me on her bosom, and her 

heart 
Would rock the snowy cradle till I died. 

" Why lingereth she to clothe her 

heart with love, 
Delaying as the tender ash delays 
To clothe herself, when all the woods 

are green? 

" O tell her, Swallow, that thy brood 

is flown : 
Say to her, I do but wanton in the 

South 
But in the North long since my nest is 

made. 

" O tell her, brief is life, but love is 

long, 
And brief the sun of summer in the 

North, 
And brief the moon of beauty in the 

South. 

" O Swallow, flying from the golden 

woods, 
Fly to her, and pipe and woo her, and 

make her mine, 
And tell her, tell her, that I follow 

thee." 

I ceased, and all the ladies, each at 

each, 
Like the Ithacensian suitors in old 

time, 
Stared with great eyes, and laugh'd 

with alien lips, 
And knew not what they meant ; for 

still my voice 
Rang false : but smiling, "Not for 

thee," she said, 
" O Bulbul, any rose of Gulistan 
Shall burst her veil : marsh- divers, 

rather, maid, 
Shall croak thee sister, or the meadow- 
crake 
Grate her harsh kindred in the grass : 

and this 
A mere love-poem ! O for such, my 

friend, 
We hold them slight : they mind us of 

the time 
When we made bricks in Egypt. 

Knaves are men, 



That lute and flute fantastic tenderness, 

And dress the victim to the offering up, 

And paint the gates of Hell with Par- 
adise, 

And play the slave to gain the tyranny. 

Poor soul ! I had a maid of honor once ; 

She wept her true eyes blind for such a 
one, 

A rogue of canzonets and serenades. 

I loved her. Peace be with her. She 
is dead. 

So they blaspheme the muse ! but great 
is song 

Used to great ends : ourself have often 
tried 

Valkyrian hymns, or into rhythm have 
dash'd 

The passion of the prophetess ; for song 

Is duer unto freedom, force and growth 

Of spirit, than to junketing and love. 

Love is it ? Would this same mock- 
love, and this 

Mock-Hymen were laid up like winter 
bats, 

Till all men grew to rate us at our worth, 

Not vassals to be beat, nor pretty babes 

To be dandled, no, but living wills, 
and sphered 

Whole in ourselves and owed to none. 
Enough ! 

But now to leaven play with profit, you, 

Know you no song, the true growth of 
your soil, 

That gives the manners of your coun- 
trywomen?" 

She spoke and turn'd her sumptuous 
head with eyes 

Of shining expectation fixt on mine. 

Then while I dragg'd my brains for 
such a song, 

Cyril, with whom the bell-mouth'd flask 
had wrought, 

Or master'd by the sense of sport, began 

To troll a careless, careless tavern-catch 

Of Moll and Meg, and strange expe- 
riences 

Unmeet for ladies. Florian nodded at 
him, 

I frowning ; Psyche flush'd and wann'd 
and shook ; 

The lilylike Melissa droop'd her brows; 

" Forbear," the Princess cried ; " For- 
bear, Sir," I ; 



A MEDLEY. 



137 



And heated thro' and thro' with wrath 

and love, 
I smote him on the breast ; he started 

up; 
There rose a shriek as of a city sack'd ; 
Melissa clamor'd, " Flee the death " ; 

" To horse," 
Said Ida ; " home ! to horse ! " and 

fled, as flies 
A troop of snowy doves athwart the 

dusk, 
When some one batters at the dove- 
cote-doors, 
Disorderly the women. Alone I stood 
With Florian, cursing Cyril, vext at 

heart, 
In the pavilion : there like parting hopes 
I heard them passing from me : hoof 

by hoof, 
And every hoof a knell to my desires, 
Clang'd on the bridge ; and then 

another shriek, 
" The Head, the Head, the Princess, 

O the Head ! " 
For blind with rage she miss'd the 

plank, and roll'd 
In the river. Out I sprang from glow 

to gloom : 
There whirl'd her white robe like a 

blossom 'd branch 
Rapt to the horrible fall : a glance I 

gave, 
No more ; but woman-vested as I was 
Plunged ; and the flood drew ; yet I 

caught her ; then 
Oaring one arm, and bearing in my left 
The weight of all the hopes of half the 

world, 
Strove to buffet to land in vain. A tree 
Was half-disrooted from his place and 

stoop'd 
To drench his dark locks in the gur- 
gling wave 
Mid-channel. Right on this we drove 

and caught, 
And grasping down the boughs I gain'd 

the shore. 

There stood her maidens glimmer- 

ingly group'd 
In the hollow bank. One reaching 

forward drew 
My burthen from mine arms ; they 

cried, " She lives ! " 



They bore her back into the tent : but I, 

So much a kind of shame within me 
wrought, 

Not yet endured to meet her opening 
eyes, 

Nor found my friends ; but push'd 
alone on foot 

(For since her horse was lost I left her 
mine) 

Across the woods, and less from Indian 
craft 

Than beelike instinct hive ward, found 
at length 

The garden portals. Two great stat- 
ues, Art 

And Science, Caryatids, lifted up 

A weight of emblem, and betwixt were 
valves 

Of open-work in which the hunter rued 

His rash intrusion, manlike, but his 
brows 

Had sprouted, and the branches there- 
upon 

Spread out at- top, and grimly spiked 
the gates. 

A little space was left between the 

horns, 
Thro' which I clamber'd o'er at top 

with pain, 
Dropt on the sward, and up the linden 

walks, 
And, tost on thoughts that changed 

from hue to hue, 
Now poring on the glowworm, now the 

star, 
/ 1 paced the terrace, till the bear had 
n*- wheel'd 

Thro' a great arc his seven slow suns/> 

A step 
Of lightest echo, then a loftier form 
Than female, moving thro' the uncer- 
tain gloom, 
Disturb'd me with the doubt " if this 

were she," 
But it was Florian. " Hist, O hist," 

he said, 
" They seek us : out so late is out of 

rules. 
Moreover ' Seize the strangers ' is the 

cry, 
How came you here ? " I told him : 

" I," said he, 
" Last of the train, a moral leper, I, 



138 



THE PRINCESS: 



To whom none spake, half-sick at 

heart, return'd. 
Arriving all confused among the rest 
With hooded brows I crept into the hall, 
And, couch'd behind a Judith, under- 
neath 
The head of Holofernes peep'd and 

saw. 
Girl after girl was call'd to trial : each 
Disclaim'd all knowledge of us : last of 

all, 
Melissa : trust me, Sir, I pitied her. 
She, question'd if she knew us men, at 

first 
Was silent ; closer prest, denied it not : 
And then, demanded if her mother 

knew, 
Or Psyche, she affirm'd not, or denied : 
From whence the Royal mind, familiar 

with her, 
Easily gather' d either guilt. She sent 
For Psyche, but she was not there ; 

she call'd 
For Psyche's child to cast it from the 

doors ; 
She sent for Blanche to accuse her 

face to face ; 
And I slipt out : but whither will you 

now? 
And where are Psyche, Cyril ? both 

are fled : 
What, if together? that were not so 

well. 
Would rather we had never come ! I 

dread 
His wildness, and the chances of the 

dark." 

" And yet," I said, " you wrong him 

more than I 
That struck him : this is proper to the 

clown, 
Tho' smock'd, or furr'd and purpled, 

still the clown, 
To harm the thing that trusts him, and 

to shame 
That which he says lie loves : for Cyril, 

howe'er 
He deal in frolic, as to-night — the song 
Might have been worse and sinn'd in 

grosser lips 
Beyond all pardon — as it is, I hold 
These flashes on the surface are not he. 
He has a solid base of temperament : 



But as the water-lily starts md slides 

Upon the level in little puffs ofwmd, 
Tho' anchor'd to the bottom, such is 
he." 

Scarce had I ceased when from a 

tamarisk near 
Two Proctors leapt upon us, crying, 

" Names," 
He, standing still, was clutch'd ; but I 

began 
To thrid the musky-circled mazes, wind 
And double in and cut the boles, and 

race 
By all the fountains : fleet I was of 

foot : 
Before me shower'd the rose in flakes ; 

behind 
I heard the pufPd pursuer ; at mine ear 
Bubbled the nightingale and heeded 

not, 
And secret laughter tickled all my soul. 
At last I hook'd my ankle in a vine, 
That claspt the feet of a Mnemosyne, 
And falling on my face was caught and 

known. 

They haled us to the Princess where 
she sat 

High in the hall : above her droop'd a 
lamp, 

And made the single jewel on her brow 

Burn like the mystic fire on a mast- 
head, 

Prophet of storm : a handmaid on each 
side 

Bow'd toward her, combing out her 
long black hair 

Damp from the river ; and close be- 
hind her stood 

Eight daughters of the plough, stronger 
than men, 

Huge women blowzed with health, and 
wind, and rain, 

And labor. Each was like a Druid 
rock ; 

Or like a spire of land that stands apart 

Cleft from the main, and wail'd about 
with mews. 

Then, as we came, the crowd divid- 
ing clove 
An advent to the throne ; and there- 
beside, 



A MEDLEY. 



i39 



Half-naked, as if caught at once from 

bed 
And tumbled on the purple footcloth, 

lay 
The lily-shining child ; and on the left, 
Bow'd on her palms and folded up 

from wrong, 
Her round white shoulder shaken with 

her sobs, 
Melissa knelt ; but Lady Blanche erect 
Stood up and spake, an affluent orator. 

" It was not thus, O Princess, in old 
days : 

You prized my counsel, lived upon my 
lips : 

I led you then to all the Castalies ; 

I fed you with the milk of every Muse ; 

I loved you like this kneeler, and you 
me 

Your second mother : those were gra- 
cious times. 

Then came your new friend : you be- 
gan to change — 

I saw it and grieved — to slacken and 
to cool ; 

Till taken with her seeming openness 

You turn'd your warmer currents all to 
her, 

To me you froze : this was my meed 
for all. > 

Yet I bore up in part from ancient love, 

And partly that I hoped to win you 
back, 

And partly conscious of my own 'deserts, 

And partly that you were my civil head, 

And chiefly you were born for some- 
thing great, 

In which I might your fellow- worker be, 

When time should serve ; and thus a 
noble scheme 

Grew up from seed we two long since 
had sown ; 

In us true growth, in her a Jonah's 
gourd, 

Up in one night and due to sudden sun : 

We took this palace ; but even from the 
first 

You stood in your own light and dark- 
en'd mine. 

What student came but that you planed 
her path 

To Lady Psyche, younger, not so wise, 

A foreigner, and I your countrywoman, 



I your old friend and tried, she new in 

all? 
But still her lists were swell'd and mine 

were lean ; 
Yet I bore up in hope she would be 

known : 
Then came these wolves : they knew 

her : they endured, 
Long-closeted with her the yestermorn, 
To tell her what they were, and she to 

hear : 
And me none told : not less to an eye 

like mine, 
A lidless watcher of the public weal, 
Last night, their mask was patent, and 

my foot 
Was to you : but I thought again : I 

fear'd 
To meet a cold ' We thank you, we 

shall hear of it 
From Lady Psyche ' : you had gone to 

her, 
She told, perforce ; and winning easy 

grace, 
No doubt, for slight delay,, remain'd 

among us 
In our young nursery still unknown, 

the stem 
Less grain than touchwood, while my 

honest heat 
Were all miscounted as malignant haste 
To push my rival out of place and 

power. 
But public use required she should be 

known ; 
And since my oath was ta'en for public 

use, 
I broke the letter of it to keep the sense. 
I spoke not then at first, but watch'd 

them well, 
Saw that they kept apart, no mischief 

done ; 
Arid yet this day (tho' you should hate 

me for it) 
I came to tell you ; found that you had 

gone, 
Ridd'n to the hills, she likewise : now, 

I thought, 
That surely she will speak ; if not, 

then I : 
Did she ? These monsters blazon'd 

what they were, 
According to the coarseness of their 

kind, 



i 4 o 



THE PRINCESS: 



For thus I hear ; and known at last 

(ray work) 
And full of cowardice and guilty shame, 
I grant in her some sense of shame, 

she flies ; 
And I remain on whom to wreak your 

rage, 
I, that have lent my life to build up 

yours, 
I that have wasted here health, wealth, 

and time, 
And talents, I — you know it — I will 

not boast : 
Dismiss me, and I prophesy your plan, 
Divorced from my experience, will be 

chaff 
For every gust of chance, and men will 

say 
We did not know the real light, but 

chased 
The wisp that flickers where no foot 

can tread." 

She ceased : the Princess answer'd 

coldly " Good : 
Your oath is broken : we dismiss you : 

go. 
For this lost lamb (she pointed to the 

child) 
Our mind is changed : we take it to 

ourselves." 

Thereat the Lady stretch'd a vulture 

throat, 
And shot from crooked lips a haggard 

smile. 
" The plan was mine. I built the 

nest," she said, 
"To hatch the cuckoo. Rise!" and 

stoop'd to updrag 
Melissa : she, half on her mother propt, 
Half-drooping from her, turn'd her 

face, and cast 
A liquid look on Ida, full of prayer, 
Which melted Florian's fancy as she 

hung, 
A Niobean daughter, one arm out, 
Appealing to the bolts of Heaven ; 

and while 
We gazed upon her came a little stir 
About the doors, and on a sudden 

rush'd 
Among us, out of breath, as one pur- 
sued, 



A woman-post in flying raiment. Fear 
Stared in her eyes, and chalk'd her 

face, and wing'd 
Her transit to the throne, whereby she 

fell 
Delivering seal'd despatches which the 

Head 
Took half-amazed, and in her lion's 

mood 
Tore open, silent we with blind surmise 
Regarding, while she read, till over 

brow 
And cheek and bosom brake the wrath- 
ful bloom 
As of some fire against a stormy cloud, 
When the wild peasant rights himself, 

the rick 
Flames, and his anger reddens in the 

heavens ; 
For anger most it seem'd, while now 

her breast, 
Beaten with some great passion at her 

heart, 
Palpitated, her hand shook, and we 

heard 
In the dead hush the papers that she 

held 
Rustle : at once the lost lamb at her feet 
Sent out a bitter bleating for its dam ; 
The plaintive cry jarr'd on her ire ; she 

crush'd 
The scrolls together, made a sudden 

turn 
As if to speak, but, utterance failing her, 
She wlliri'd them on to me, as who 

should say 
"Read," and I read — two letters — 

one her sire's. 

" Fair daughter, when we sent the 

Prince your way 
We knew not your ungracious laws, 

which learnt, 
We, conscious of what temper you are 

built, 
Came all in haste to hinder wrong, but 

fell 
Into his father's hands, who has this 

night, 
You lying close upon his territory, 
Slipt round and in the dark invested 

you, ■ 
And here he keeps me hostage for his 

son." 



A MEDLEY. 



141 



The second was my father's, running 

thus : 
" You have our son : touch not a hair 

of his head : 
Render him up unscathed : give him 

your hand : 
Cleave to your contract : tho' indeed 

we hear 
You hold the woman is the better man ; 
A rampant heresy, such as if it spread 
Would make all women kick against 

their lords 
Thro' all the world, and which might 

well deserve 
That we this night should pluck your 

palace down ; 
And we will do it, unless you send us 

back 
Our son, on the instant, whole." 

So far I read ; 
And then stood up and spoke impet- 
uously. 

" O not to pry and peer on your re- 
serve, 
But led by golden wishes, and a hope 
The child of regal compact, did I break 
Your precinct ; not a scorner of your 

sex 
But venerator, zealous it should be 
All that it might be : hear me, for I 

bear, 
Tho' man, yet human, whatsoe'er your 

wrongs, 
From the flaxen curl to the gray lock 

a life 
Less mine than yours : my nurse would 

tell me of you ; 
I babbled for you, as babies for the 

moon, 
Vague brightness ; when a boy, you 

stoop'd to me 
From all high places, lived in all fair 

lights, 
Came in long breezes rapt from inmost 

south 
And blown to inmost north ; at eve 

and dawn 
With Ida, Ida, Ida, rang the woods ; 
The leader wildswan in among the stars 
Would clang it, and lapt in wreaths of 

glowworm light 
The mellow breaker murmur'd Ida. 

Now, 



Because I would have reach'd you, had 

you been 
Sphered up with Cassiopeia, or the en- 
throned 
Persephone in Hades, now at length, 
Those winters of abeyance all worn out, 
A man I came to see you : but, indeed, 
Not in this frequence can I lend full 
tongue, 

noble Ida, to those thoughts that wait 
On you, their centre : let me say but 

this, 
That many a famous man and woman, 

town 
And landskip, have I heard of, after 

seen 
The dwarfs of presage ; tho' when 

known, there grew 
Another kind of beauty in detail 
Made them worth knowing ; but in you 

I found 
My boyish dream involved and dazzled 

down 
And master' d, while that after-beauty 

makes 
Such head from act to act, from hour to 

hour, 
Within me, that except you slay me 

here, 
According to your bitter statute-book, 

1 cannot cease to follow you, as they 

say 

The seal does music ; who desire you 
more 

Than growing boys their manhood ; 
dying lips, 

With many thousand matters left to do, 

The breath of life ; O more than poor 
men wealth, 

Than sick men health, — yours, yours, 
not mine, — but half 

Without you, with you, whole ; and of 
those halves 

You worthiest ; and howe'er you block 
and bar 

Your heart with system out from mine, 
I hold 

That it becomes no man to nurse de- 
spair, 

But in the teeth of clench'd antago- 
nisms 

To follow up the worthiest till he die : 

Vet that I came not all unauthorized 

Behold your father's letter." 



142 



THE PRINCESS: 



On one knee 
Kneeling, I gave it, which she caught, 

and dash'd 
Unopen'd at her feet : a tide of fierce 
Invective seem'd to wait behind her 

lips, 
As waits a river level with the dam 
Ready to burst and flood the world 

with foam : 
And so she would have spoken, but 

there rose 
A hubbub in the court of half the maids 
Gather d together : from the illumined 

hall 
Long lanes of splendor slanted o'er a 

press 
Of snowy shoulders, thick as herded 

ewes, 
And rainbow robes, and gems and gem- 
like eyes, 
And gold and golden heads ; they to 

and fro 
Fluctuated, as flowers in storm, some 

red, some pale, 
All open-mouth'd, all gazing to the 

light, 
Some crying there was an army in the 

land, 
And some that men were in the very 

walls, 
And some they cared not ; till a clamor 

grew 
As of a new-world Babel, woman-built, 
And worse-confounded : high above 

them stood 
The placid marble Muses, looking 

peace. 

Not peace she look'd, the Head : 

but rising up 
Robed in the long night of her deep 

hair, so 
To the open window moved, remain- 
ing there 
Fixt like a beacon-tower above the 

waves 
Of tempest, when the crimson-rolling 

eye 
Glares ruin, and the wild birds on the 

light 
Dash themselves dead. She stretch'd 

her arms and call'd 
Across the tumult and the tumult 

fell. 



"What fear ye brawlers? am not I 

your Head? 
On me, me, me, the storm first breaks : 

/ dare 
All these male thunderbolts : what is 

it ye fear ? 
Peace ! there are those to avenge us 

and they come : 
If not, — myself were like enough, O 

girls, 
To unfurl the maiden banner of our 

rights. 
And clad in iron burst the ranks of war, 
Or, falling, protomartyr of our cause, 
Die : yet I blame ye not so much for 

fear; 
Six thousand years of fear have made 

ye that 
From which I would redeem ye : but 

for those 
That stir this hubbub — you and you 

— I know 
Your faces there in the crowd — to- 
morrow morn 
We hold a great convention : then shall 

they 
That love their voices more than duty, 

learn 
With whom they deal, dismiss'd in 

shame to live 
No wiser than their mothers, house- 
hold stuff, 
Live chattels, mincers of each other's 

fame, 
Full of weak poison, turnspits for the 

clown, 
The drunkard's football, laughing- 
stocks of Time, 
Whose brains are in their hands and in 

their heels, 
But fit to flaunt, to dress, to dance, to 

thrum, 
To tramp, to scream, to burnish, and 

to scour, 
Forever slaves at home and fools 

abroad." 

She, ending, waved her hands i 

thereat the crowd 
Muttering, dissolved : then with a 

smile, that look'd 
A stroke of cruel sunshine on the cliff, 
When all the glens are drown'd in 

azure gloom 



A MEDLEY. 



i43 



Of thunder-shower, she floated to us 
and said : 

" You have done well and like a gen- 
tleman, 

And like a prince : you have our thanks 
for all : 

And you look well too in your woman's 
dress : 

Well have you done and like a gentle- 
man. 

You saved our life : we owe you bitter 
thanks : 

Better have died and spilt our bones in 
the flood — 

Then men had said — but now — What 
hinders me 

To take such bloody vengeance on you 
both? — 

Yet since our father — Wasps in our 
good hive, 

You would-be quenchers of the light to 
be, 

Barbarians, grosser than your native 
bears — 

would I had his sceptre for one 

hour ! 

You that have dared to break our 
bound, and gull'd 

Our servants, wrong'd and lied and 
thwarted us — 

/ wed with thee ! / bound by pre- 
contract 

Your bride, your bondslave ! not tho' 
all the gold 

That veins the world were pack'd to 
make your crown, 

And every spoken tongue should lord 
you. Sir, 

Your falsehood and yourself are hate- 
ful to us : 

1 trample on your offers and on you : 
Begone : we will not look upon you 

more. 
Here, push them out at gates." 

In wrath she spake. 
Then those eight mighty daughters of 

the plough 
Bent their broad faces toward us and 

address'd 
Their motion : twice I sought to plead 

mv cause, 
But on my shoulder hung their heavy 

hands, 



The weight of destiny : so from her 

face 
They push'd us, down the steps, and 

thro' the court, 
And with grim laughter thrust us out 

at gates. 

We cross'd the street and gain'd a 

petty mound 
Beyond it, whence we saw the lights 

and heard 
The voices murmuring. While I lis- 

ten'd, came 
On a sudden the weird seizure and the 

doubt : 
I seem'd to move among a world of 

ghosts ; 
The Princess with her monstrous wo- 
man-guard, 
The jest and earnest working side by 

side, 
The cataract and the tumult and the 

kings 
Were shadows ; and the long fantastic 

night 
With all its doings had and had not 

been, 
And all things were and were not. 

This went by 
As strangely as it came, and on my 

spirits 
Settled a gentle cloud of melancholy ; 
Not long ; I shook it off; for spite of 

doubts 
And sudden ghostly shadowings I was 

one 
To whom the touch of all mischance 

but came 
As night to him that sitting on a hill 
Sees the midsummer, midnight, Nor- 
way sun 
Set into sunrise : then we moved away. 



Thy voice is heard thro' rolling drums, 
That beat to battle where he stands ; 

Thy face across his fancy comes, 
And gives the battle to his hands : 

A moment, while the trumpets blow, 
He sees his brood about thy knee ; 

The next, like fire he meets the foe, 

And strikes him dead for thine and 
thee. 



144 



THE PRINCESS: 



So Lilia sang : we thought her half- 

possess'd, 
She struck such warbling fury thro' the 

words ; 
And, after, feigning pique at what she 

call'd 
The raillery, or grotesque, or false sub- 
lime — 
Like one that wishes at a dance to 

change 
The music — clapt her hands and cried 

for war, 
Or some grand fight to kill and make 

an end : 
And he that next inherited the tale 
Half turning to the broken statue, said, 
" Sir Ralph has got your colors : if I 

prove 
Your knight, and fight your battle, 

what for me? " 
It chanced, her empty glove upon the 

tomb 
Lay by her like a model of her hand. 
She took it and she flung it. "Fight," 

she said, 
" And make us all we would be, great 

and good." 
He knightlike in his cap instead of 

casque, 
A cap of Tyrol borrow'd from the hall, 
Arranged the favor, and assumed the 

Prince. 



Now, scarce three paces measured 

from the mound, 
We stumbled on a stationary voice, 
And " Stand, who goes? " " Two from 

the palace," I. 
11 The second two : they wait," he 

said, " pass on ; 
His Highness wakes " : and one, that 

clash'd in arms, 
By glimmering lanes and walls of can- 
vas, led 
Threading the soldier-city, till we heard 
The drowsy folds of our great ensign 

shake 
From blazon'd lions o'er the imperial 

tent 
Whispers of war. 



Entering, the sudden light 
Dazed me half-blind : I stood and 

seem'd to hear, 
As in a poplar grove when a light wind 

wakes 
A lisping of the innumerous leaf and 

dies, 
Each hissing in his neighbor's ear ; 

and then 
A strangled titter, out of which there 

brake 
On all sides, clamoring etiquette to 

death 
Unmeasured mirth ; while now the two 

old kings 
Began to wag their baldness up and 

down, 
The fresh young captains flash'd their 

glittering teeth. 
The huge bush-bearded Barons heaved 

and blew. 
And slain with laughter roll'd the 

gilded Squire. 

At length my Sire, his rough cheek 

wet with tears, 
Panted from weary sides, " King, you 

are free ! 
We did but keep you surety for our son, 
If this be he, — or a draggled mawkin, 

thou, 
That tends her bristled grunters in the 

sludge " : 
For I was drench'd with ooze, and 

torn with briers, 
More crumpled than a poppy from the 

sheath, 
And all one rag, disprinced from head 

to heel. 
Then some one sent beneath his 

vaulted palm 
A whisper'd jest to some one near him 

Look, 
He has been among his shadows." 

" Satan take 
The old women and their shadows ! 

(thus the King 
Roar'd) make yourself a man to fight 

with men. 
Go : Cyril told us all." 

As boys that slink 
From ferule and the trespass-chiding 

eye, 
Away we stole, and transient in a trice 



A MEDLEY. 



145 



From what was left of faded woman- 
slough 

To sheathing splendors and the golden 
scale , 

Of harness, issued in the sun, that now 

Leapt from the dewy shoulders of the 
Earth, 

And hit the northern hills. Here 
Cyril met us, 

A little shy at first, but by and by 

We twain, with mutual pardon ask'd 
and given 

For stroke and song, resolder'd peace, 
whereon 

Follow'd his tale. Amazed he fled 
away 

Thro' the dark land, and later in the 
night 

Had come on Psyche weeping : " then 
we fell 

Into your father's hand, and there she 
lies, 

But will not speak, nor stir." 

He show'd a tent 

A stone-shot off: we enter'd in, and 
there 

Among piled arms and rough accoutre- 
ments, 

Pitiful sight, wrapt in a soldier's cloak, 

Like some sweet sculpture draped from 
head to foot, 

And push'd by rude hands from its 
pedestal, 

All her fair length upon the ground she 
lay: 

And at her head a follower of the camp, 

A charr'd and wrinkled piece of wo- 
manhood, 

Sat watching like a watcher by the 
dead. 

Then Florian knelt, and "Come" 

he whisper'd to her, 
" Lift up your head, sweet sister : lie 

not thus. 
What have you done but right ? you 

could not slay 
Me, nor your prince : look up : be 

comforted : 
Sweet is it to have done the thing one 

ought, 
When fall'n in darker ways." And 

likewise I : 
" Be comforted : have I not lost her too, 



In whose least act abides the nameless 

charm 
That none has else for me ? " She 

heard, she moved, 
She moan'd, a folded voice; and up 

she sat, 
And raised the cloak from brows as 

pale and smooth 
As those that mourn half-shrouded 

over death 
In deathless marble. " Her," she 

said, " my friend — 
Parted from her — betray'd her cause 

and mine — 
Where shall I breathe ? why kept ye 

not your faith ? 
O base and bad ! what comfort ? none 

for me ! " 
To whom remorseful Cyril, " Yet I 

pray 
Take comfort : live, dear lady, for 

your child ! " 
At which she lifted up her voice and 

cried. 

" Ah me, my babe, my blossom, ah 

my child, 
My one sweet child, whom I shall see 

no more ! 
For now will cruel Ida keep her back ; 
And either she will die from want of 

care, 
Or sicken with ill usage, when they 

say 
The child is hers — for every little fault, 
The child is hers ; and they will beat 

my girl 
Remembering her mother : O my 

flower ! 
Or they will take her, they will make 

her hard, 
And she will pass me by in after-life 
With some cold reverence worse than 

were she dead. 
Ill mother that I was to leave her there, 
To lag behind, scared by the cry they 

made, 
The horror of the shame among them 

all: 
But I will go and sit beside the doors, 
And make a wild petition night and day, 
Until they hate to hear me like a wind 
Wailing forever, till they open to me, 
And lay my little blossom at my feet, 



146 



THE PRINCESS: 



My babe, my sweet Aglaia, my one 

child : 
And I will take her up and go my 

way, 
And satisfy my soul with kissing her : 
Ah ! what might that man not deserve 

of me, 
Who gave me back my child? " "Be 

comforted," 
Said Cyril, " you shall have it," but 

again 
She veil'd her brows, and prone she 

sank, and so 
Like tender things that being caught 

feign death, 
Spoke not, nor stirr'd. 

By this a murmur ran 
Thro' all the camp and inward raced 

the scouts 
With rumor of Prince Arac hard at 

hand. 
We left her by the woman, and without 
Found the gray kings at parle : and 

" Look you," cried 
My father, " that our compact be ful- 

filPd: 
You have spoilt this child ; she laughs 

at you and man : 
She wrongs herself, her sex, and me, 

and him : 
But red-faced war has rods of steel and 

fire ; 
She yields, or war." 

Then Gama turn'd to me : 
" We fear, indeed, you spent a stormy 

time 
With our strange girl : and yet they 

say that still 
You love her. Give us, then, your 

mind at large : 
How say you, war or not ? " 

" Not war, if possible, 
O king," I said, "lest from the abuse 

of war, 
The desecrated shrine, the trampled 

year, 
The smouldering homestead, and the 

household flower 
Torn from the lintel — all the common 

wrong — 
A smoke go up thro' which I loom to 

her 
Three times a monster : now she 

lightens scorn 



At him that mars her plan, but then 

would hate 
(And every voice she talk'd with ratify 

it, 
And every face she look'd on justify it) 
The general foe. More soluble is this 

knot, 
By gentleness than war. I want her 

love. 
What were I nigher this altho' we 

dash'd 
Your cities into shards with catapults, 
She would not love ; — or brought her 

chain'd, a slave, 
The lifting of whose eyelash is my 

lord, 
Not ever would she love ; but brood- 
ing turn 
The book of scorn, till all my little 

chance 
Were caught within the record of her 

wrongs, 
And crush'd to death : and rather, 

Sire, than this 
I would the old god of war himself 

were dead, 
Forgotten, rusting on his iron hills, 
Rotting on some wild shore with ribs 

of wreck, 
Or like an old-world mammoth bulk'd 

in ice, 
Not to be molten out." 

- And roughly spake 
My father, " Tut, you know them not, 

the girls. • 
Boy, when I hear you prate I almost 

think 
That idiot legend credible. Look you, 

Sir ! 
Man is the hunter ; woman is his game : 
The sleek and shining creatures of the 

chase, 
We hunt them for the beauty of their 

skins ; 
They love us for it, and we ride them 

down. 
Wheedling and siding with them ! 

Out ! for shame ! 
Boy, there 's no rose that 's half so dear 

to them 
As he that does the thing they dare 

not do, 
Breathing and sounding beauteous 

battle, comes 



A MEDLEY. 



With the air of the trumpet round him, 

and leaps in 
Among the women, snares them by the 

score 
Flatter'd and fluster'd, wins, though 

dash'd with death 
He reddens what he kisses : thus I won 
Your mother, a good mother, a good 

wife, 
Worth winning ; but this firebrand — 

gentleness 
To such as her ! if Cyril spake her true, 
To catch a dragon in a cherry net, 
To trip 2 tigress with a gossamer, 
Were wisdom to it." 

" Yea, but Sire," I cried, 
" Wild natures need wise curbs. The 

soldier ? No : 
What dares not Ida do that she should 

prize 
The soldier ? I beheld her, when she 

rose 
The yesternight, and storming in ex- 
tremes 
Stood for her cause, and flung defiance 

down 
Gagelike to man, and had not shunn'd 

the death, 
No, not the soldier's : yet I hold her, 

king, 
True woman : but you clash them all 

in one, 
That have as many differences as we. 
The violet varies from the lily as far 
As oak from elm : one loves the sol- 
dier, one 
The silken priest of peace, one this, 

one that, 
And some unworthily ; their sinless 

faith, 
A maiden moon that sparkles on a 

sty, 
Glorifying clown and satyr ; whence 

they need 
More breadth of culture : is not Ida 

right ? 
They worth it ? truer to the law within ? 
Severer in the logic of a life ? 
Twice as magnetic to sweet influences 
Of earth and heaven ? and she of whom 

you speak, 
My mother, looks as whole as some 

serene 
Creation minted in the golden moods 



Of sovereign artists ; not a thought, a 

touch, 
But pure as lines of green that streak 

the white 
Of the first snowdrop's inner leaves ; 

I say, 
Not like the piebald miscellany, man, 
Bursts of great heart and slips in sen- 
sual mire, 
But whole and one : and take them 

all-in-all, 
Were we ourselves but half as good, as 

kind, 
As truthful, much that Ida claims as 

right 
Had ne'er been mooted, but as frankly 

theirs 
As dues of Nature. To our point : 

not war : 
Lest I lose all." 

" Nay, nay, you spake but sense," 
Said Gama. "We remember love our- 
selves 
In our sweet youth ; we did not rate 

him then 
This red-hot iron to be shaped with 

blows. 
You talk almost like Ida : s&e can talk ; 
And there is something in it as you 

say : 
But you talk kindlier : we esteem you 

for it. — 
He seems a gracious and a gallant 

Prince, 
I would he had our daughter : for the 

rest, 
Our own detention, why the causes 

weigh'd, 
Fatherly fears — you used us courte- 
ously — 
We would do much to gratify your 

Prince — 
We pardon it ; and for your ingress 

here 
Upon the skirt and fringe of our fair 

land, 
You did but come as goblins in the 

night, 
Nor in the furrow broke the plough- 
man's head, 
Nor burnt the grange, nor buss'd the 

milking-maid, 
Nor robb'd the farmer of his bowl of 

cream : 



148 



THE PRINCESS: 



But let your Prince (our royal word 

upon it, 
He cOmes back safe) ride with us to our 

lines, 
And speak with Arac : Arac's word is 

thrice 
As ours with Ida : something may be 

done — 
I know not what — and ours shall see 

us friends. 
You, likewise, our late guests, if so you 

will, 
Follow us : who knows ? we four may 

build some plan 
Foursquare to opposition." 

Here he reach'd 
White hands of farewell to my sire, 

who growPd 
An answer which, half-muffled in his 

beard, 
Let so much out as gave us leave to go. 

Then rode we with the old king 

across the lawns 
Beneath huge trees, a thousand rings 

of Spring 
In every bole, a song on every spray 
Of birds that piped their Valentines, 

and woke 
Desire in me to infuse my tale of love 
In the old king's ears, who promised 

help, and oozed 
All o'er with honey' d answer as we 

rode ; 
And blossom-fragrant slipt the heavy 

dews 
Gather' d by night and peace, with each 

light air 
On our mail'd heads : but other 

thoughts than Peace 
Burnt in us, when we saw the embat- 
tled squares, 
And squadrons of the Prince, tram- 
pling the flowers 
With clamor : for among them rose a 

cry 
As if to greet the king ; they made a 

halt; 
The horses yell'd; they clash'd their 

arms ; the drum 
Beat ; merrily-blowing shrill'd the 

martial fife ; 
And in the blast and bray of the long 

horn 



And serpent-throated bugle, undulated 
The banner : anon to meet us lightly 

pranced 
Three captains out ; nor ever had I 

seen 
Such thews of men : the midmost and 

the highest 
Was Arac : all about his motion clung 
The shadow of his sister, as the beam 
Of the East, that play'd upon them, 

made them glance 
Like those three stars of the airy Gi- 
ant's zone, 
That glitter burnish'd by the frosty 

dark; 
And as the fiery Sirius alters hue, 
And bickers into red and emerald, 

shone 
Their morions, wash'd with morning, 

as they came. 

And I that prated peace, when first 

I heard 
War-music, felt the blind wildbeast of 

force, 
Whose home is in the sinews of a man, 
Stir in me as to strike : then took the 

king 
His three broad sons ; with now a 

wandering hand 
And now a pointed finger, told them 

all: 
A common light of smiles at our dis- 
guise 
Broke from their lips, and, ere the 

windy jest 
Had labor'd down within his ample 

lungs, 
The genial giant, Arac, roll'd himself 
Thrice in the saddle, then burst out in 

words. 

" Our land invaded, 'sdeath ! and he 
himself 

Your captive, yet my father wills not 
war: 

And, 'sdeath ! myself, what care I, war 
or no ? 

But then this question of your troth 
remains : 

And there 's a downright honest mean- 
ing in her ; 

She flies too high, she flies too high ! 
and yet 



A MEDLEY. 



149 



She ask'd but space and fairplay for 

her scheme : 
She prest and prest it on me — I my- 
self, 
What know I of these things ? but, life 

and soul ! 
I thought her half-right talking of her 

wrongs ; 
I say she flies too high, 'sdeath ! what 

of that ? 
I take her for the flower of womankind, 
And so I often told her, right or wrong, 
And, Prince, she can be sweet to those 

she loves, 
And, right or wrong, I care not : this 

is all, 
I stand upon her side : she made me 

swear it — 
'Sdeath, — and with solemn rites by 

candle-light — 
Swear by St. something — I forget her 

name — 
Her that talk'd down the fifty wisest 

men ; 
She was a princess too ; and so I swore. 
Come, this is all ; she will not : waive 

your claim, 
If not, the foughten field, what else, at 

once 
Decides it, 'sdeath ! against my father's 

will." 

I lagg'd in answer loath to render up 
My precontract, and loath by brainless 

war 
To cleave the rift of difference deeper 

yet; 
Till one of those two brothers, half 

aside 
And fingering at the hair about his lip, 
To prick us on to combat " Like to 

like! 
The woman's garment hid the woman's 

heart." 
A taunt that clench'd his purpose like 

a blow ! 
For fiery-short was Cyril's counter- 
scoff, 
And sharp I answer'd, touch'd upon 

the point 
Where idle boys are cowards to their 

shame, 
"Decide it here: why not? we are 

three to three." 



Then spake the third, " But three to 

three ? no more ? 
No more, and in our noble sister's 

cause ? 
More, more, for honor : every captain 

waits 
Hungry for honor, angry for his king. 
More, more, some fifty on a side, that 

each 
May breathe himself, and quick ! by 

overthrow 
Of these or those, the question settled 

die." 

"Yea," answer'd I, "for this wild 

wreath of air, 
This flake of rainbow flying on the 

highest 
Foam of men's deeds — this honor, if 

ye will. 
It needs must be for honor if at all : 
Since, what decision ? if we fail, we fail, 
And if we win, we fail : she would not 

keep 
Her compact." "'Sdeath! but we 

will send to her," 
Said Arac, "worthy reasons why she 

should 
Bide by this issue : let our missive 

thro', 
And you shall have her answer by the 

word." 

" Boys ! " shriek'd the old king, but 

vainlier than a hen 
To her false daughters in the pool ; for 

none 
Regarded ; neither seem'd there more 

to say : 
Back rode we to my father's camp, and 

found 
He thrice had sent a herald to the 

gates, 
To learn if Ida yet would cede our 

claim, 
Or by denial flush her babbling wells 
With her own people's life : three times 

he went : 
The first, he blew and blew, but none 

appear'd : 
He batter'd at the doors ; none came : 

the next, 
An awful voice within had warn'd him 

thence : 



ISO 



THE PRINCESS: 



The third, and those eight daughters 

of the plough 
Came sallying thro' the gates, and 

caught his hair, 
And so belabor' d him on rib and cheek 
They made him wild : not less one 

glance he caught 
Thro' open doors of Ida station'd there 
Unshaken, clinging to her purpose, firm 
Tho' compass'd by two armies and the 

noise 
Of arms ; and standing like a stately 

Pine 
Set in a cataract on an island-crag, 
When storm is on the heights, and 

right and left 
Suck'd from the dark heart of the long 

hills roll 
The torrents, dash'd to the vale : and 

yet her will 
Bred will in me to overcome it or fall. 

But when I told the king that I was 

pledged 
To fight in tourney for my bride, he 

clash 'd 
His iron palms together with a cry ; 
Himself would tilt it out among the 

lads : 
But overborne by all his bearded lords 
With reasons drawn from age and state, 

perforce 
He yielded, wroth and red, with fierce 

demur : 
And many a bold knight started up in 

heat, 
And sware to combat for my claim till 

death. 

All on this side the palace ran the 

field 
Flat to the garden-wall : and likewise 

here, 
Above the garden's glowing blossom- 
belts, 
A column'd entry shone and marble 

stairs, 
And great bronze valves, emboss'd with 

Tomyris 
And what she did to Cyrus after fight, 
But now fast barr'd : so here upon the 

flat 
All that long morn the lists were ham- 

mer'd up, 



And all that morn the heralds to and 

fro, 
With message and defiance, went and 

came ; 
Last, Ida's answer, in a royal hand, 
But shaken here and there, and rolling 

words 
Oration-like. I kiss'd it and I read. 

"O brother, you have known the 

pangs we felt, 
What heats of indignation when we 

heard 
Of those that iron-cramp'd their wo- 
men's feet ; 
Of lands in which at the altar the poor 

bride 
Gives her harsh groom for bridal -gift a 

scourge ; 
Of living hearts that crack within the 

fire 
Where smoulder their dead despots; 

and of those, — 
Mothers, — that, all prophetic pity, 

fling 
Their pretty maids in the running 

flood, and swoops 
The vulture, beak and talon, at the 

heart 
Made for all noble motion : and I 

saw 
That equal baseness lived in sleeker 

times 
With smoother men : the old leaven 

leaven'd all : 
Millions of throats would bawl for civil 

rights, 
No woman named : therefore I set my 

face 
Against all men, and lived but for mine 

own. 
Far off from men I built a fold for them : 
I stored it full of rich memorial : 
1 fenced it round with gallant institutes, 
And biting laws to scare the beasts of 

prey, 
And prosper'd ; till a rout of saucy boys 
Brake on us at our books, and marr'd 

our peace, 
Mask'd like our maids, blustering I 

know not what 
Of insolence and love, some pretext 

held 
Of baby troth, invalid, since my will 



A MEDLEY. 



151 



Seal'd not the bond — the striplings ! 

— for their sport ! — 
I tamed my leopards : shall I not tame 

these? 
Or you ? or I ? for since you think me 

touch'd 
In honor — what, I would not aught of 

false — 
Is not our cause pure ? and whereas I 

know 
Your prowess, Arac, and what moth- 
er's blood 
You draw from, fight ; you failing, I 

abide 
What end soever : fail you will not. 

Still t 
Take not his life : he risk'd it for my 

own ; 
His mother lives : yet whatsoefcr you 

do, 
Fight and fight well ; strike and strike 

home. O dear 
Brothers, the woman's Angel guards 

you, you 
The sole men to be mingled with our 

cause, 
The sole men we shall prize in the af- 
ter-time, 
Your very armor hallow'd, and your 

statues 
Rear'd, sung to, when this gad-fly 

brush'd aside, 
We plant a solid foot into the Time, 
And mould a generation strong to move 
With claim on claim from right to right, 

till she 
Whose name is yoked with children's, 

know herself; 
And Knowledge in our own land make 

her free, 
And, ever following those two crowned 

twins, 
Commerce and conquest, shower the 

fiery grain 
Of freedom broadcast over all that orbs 
Between the Northern and the South- 
ern rnorn." 

Then came a postscript dash'd across 

the rest. 
" See that there be no traitors in your 

camp : 
We seem a nest of traitors — none to 

trust 



Since our arms fail'd — this Egypt- 
plague of men ! 

Almost our maids were better at their 
homes, 

Than thus man-girdled here : indeed I 
think 

Our chiefest comfort is the little child 

Of one unworthy mother ; which she 
left: 

She shall not have it back • the child 
shall grow 

To prize the authentic mother of her 
mind. 

I took it for an hour in mine own bed 

This morning : there the tender or- 
phan hands 

Felt at my heart, and seem'd to charm 
from thence 

The wrath I nursed against the world : 
farewell." 

I ceased ; he said : " Stubborn, but 

she may sit 
Upon a king's right hand in thunder- 
storms, 
And breed up warriors ! See now, 

tho' yourself 
Be dazzled by the wildfire Love to 

sloughs 
That swallow common sense, the 

spindling king, 
This Gama swamp'd in lazy tolerance. 
When the man wants weight, the wo- 
man takes it up, 
And topples down the scales ; but this 

is fixt 
As are the roots of earth and base of all ; 
'Man for the field and woman for the 

hearth : 
Man for the sword and for the needle 

she : 
Man with the head and woman with 

the heart : 
\ Man to command and woman to obey ; 
All else confusion. Look you ! the 

gray mare 
Is ill to live with, when her whinny 

shrills 
From tile to scullery, and her small 

goodman 
Shrinks in his arm-chair while the fires 

of Hell 
Mix with his hearth : but you — she 's 

yet a colt — 



152 



THE PRINCESS: 



Take, break her : strongly groom'd and 

straitly curb'd 
She might not rank with those detest- 
able 
That let the bantling scald at home, 

and brawl 
Their rights or wrongs like potherbs in 

the street. 
They say she 's comely ; there 's the 

fairgr chance : 
/ like her none the less for rating at 

her ! 
Besides, the woman wed is not as we, 
But suffers change of frame. A lusty 

brace 
Of twins may weed her of her folly. 

Boy, 
The bearing and the training of a cliilcj 
Is woman's wisdom.1 

Thus the hard old king : 
I took my leave, for it was nearly noon : 
I pored upon her letter which I held, 
And on the little clause " take not his 

life " : 
I mused on that wild morning in the 

woods, 
And on the " Follow, follow, thou 

shalt win " : 
I thought on all the wrathful king had 

said, 
And how the strange betrothment was 

to end : 
Then I remember'd that burnt sor- 
cerer's curse 
That one should fight with shadows 

and should fall ; 
And like a flash the weird affection 

came : 
King, camp and college turn'd to hol- 
low shows ; 
I seem'd to move in old memorial tilts, 
And doing battle with forgotten ghosts, 
To dream myself the shadow of a 

dream : 
And ere I woke it was the point of noon, 
The lists were ready. Empanoplied 

and plumed 
We enter'd in, and waited, fifty there 
Opposed to fifty, till the trumpet blared 
At the barrier like a wild horn in a land 
Of echoes, and a moment, and once 

more 
The trumpet, and again : at which the 

storm 



Of galloping hoofs bare on the ridge of 

spears 
And riders front to front, until they 

closed 
In conflict with the crash of shivering 

points, 
And thunder. Yet it seem'd a dream ; 

I dream'd 
Of fighting. On his haunches rose 

the steed, 
And into fiery splinters leapt the lance, 
And out of stricken helmets sprang the 

fire. 
A noble dream ! what was it else I saw? 
Part sat like rocks : part reel'd but 

kept their seats : 
Part roll'd on the earth and rose again 

and drew : 
Part stumbled mixt with floundering 

Worses. Down 
From those two bulks at Arac's side, 

and down 
From Arac's arm, as from a giant's 

flail, 
The large blows rain'd, as here and 

everywhere 
He rode the mellay, lord of the ringing 

lists, 
And all the plain — brand, mace, and 

shaft, and shield — 
Shock'd, like an iron-clanging anvil 

bang'd 
With hammers ; till I thought, can 

this be he 
From Gama's dwarfish loins ? if this 

be so, 
The mother makes us most — and in 

my dream 
I glanced aside, and saw the palace- 
front 
Alive with fluttering scarfs and ladies' 

eyes, 
And highest, among the statues, statue- 
like, 
Between a cymbal'd Miriam and a Jael, 
With Psyche's babe, was Ida watching 

us, 
A single band of gold about her hair, 
Like a Saint's glory up in heaven : 

but she 
No saint — inexorable — no tender- 
ness — 
Too hard, too cruel : yet she sees me 

fight, 



A MEDLEY. 



153 



Yea, let her see me fall ! with that T drave 
Among the thickest and bore down a 

Prince, 
And Cyril, one. Yea, let me make my 

dream 
All that I would. But that large- 
moulded man, 
His visage all agrin as at a wake, 
Made at me thro' the press, and, stag- 
gering back 
With stroke on stroke the horse and 

horseman, came 
As comes a pillar of electric cloud, 
Flaying the roofs and sucking up the 

drains, 
And shadowing down the champaign 

till it strikes 
On a wood, and takes, and breaks, and 

cracks, and splits, 
And twists the grain with such a roar 

that Earth 
Reels, and the herdsmen cry ; for 

everything 
Gave way before him : only Florian, he 
That loved me closer than his own 

right eye, 
Thrust in between ; but Arac rode him 

down : 
And Cyril seeing it, push'd against the 

Prince, 
With Psyche's color round his helmet, 

tough, 
Strong, supple, sinew-corded, apt at 

arms ; 
But tougher, heavier, stronger, he that 

smote 
And threw him : last I spurr'd ; I felt 

my veins 
Stretch with fierce heat ; a moment 

hand to hand, 
And sword to sword, and horse to horse 

we hung, 
Till I struck out and shouted ; the 

blade glanced ; 
I did but shear a feather, and dream 

and truth 
Flow'd from me ; darkness closed me ; 

and I fell. 



Home they brought her warrior dead : 
She nor swoon'd, nor utter'd cry : 

All her maidens, watching, said, 
" She must weep or she will die." 



Then they praised him, soft and low, 
CalPd him worthy to be loved, 

Truest friend and noblest foe ; 
Yet she neither spoke nor moved. 

Stole a maiden from her place, 
Lightly to the warrior stept, 

Took the face-cloth from the face ; 
Yet she neither moved nor wept. 

Rose a nurse of ninety years, 
Set his child upon her knee — 

Like summer tempest came her tears — 
" Sweet my child, I live for thee." 



VI. 

My dream had never died or lived 

again. 
As in some mystic middle state I lay ; 
Seeing I saw not, hearing not I heard : 
Tho', if I saw not, yet they told me all 
So often that I speak as having seen. 

For so it seem'd, or so they said to 

me, 
That all things grew more tragic and 

more strange ; 
That when our side was vanquish' d 

and my cause 
Forever lost, there went up a great cry, 
The Prince is slain. My father heard 

and ran 
In on the lists, and there unlaced my 

casque 
And grovell'd on my body, and after 

him 
Came Psyche, sorrowing for Aglai'a. 

But high upon the palace Ida stood 
With Psyche's babe in arm : there on 

the roofs 
Like that great dame of Lapidoth she 

sang. 

" Our enemies have fall'n, have 

fall'n : the seed 
The little seed they laugh'd at in the 

dark, 
Has risen and cleft the soil, and grown 

a bulk 
Of spanless girth, that lays on every 

side 
A thousand arms and 1 ushes to the Sun. 



154 



THE PRINCESS: 



" Our enemies have fall'n, have 
fall'n : they came ; 

The leaves were wet with women's 
tears : they heard 

A noise of songs they would not un- 
derstand : 

They mark'd it with the red cross to 
the fall, 

And would have strown it, and are 
fall'n themselves. 

" Our enemies have fall'n, have 

fall'n : they came, 
The woodmen with their axes : lo the 

tree ! 
But we will make it fagots for the 

hearth, 
And shape it plank and beam for roof 

and floor, 
And boats and bridges for the use of 

men. 

" Our enemies have fall'n, have 
fall'n : they struck ; 

With their own blows they hurt them- 
selves, nor knew 

There dwelt an iron nature in the grain : 

The glittering axe was broken in their 
arms, 

Their arms were shatter'd to the shoul- 
der blade. 

" Our enemies have fall'n, but this 

shall grow • 
A night of Summer from the heat, a 

breadth 
Of Autumn, dropping fruits of power ; 

and roll'd 
With music in the growing breeze of 

Time, 
The tops shall strike from star to star, 

the fangs 
Shall move the stony bases of the world. 

"And now, O maids, behold our 

sanctuary 
Is violate, our laws broken : fear we 

not 
To break them more in their behoof, 

whose arms 
Champion'd our cause and won it with 

a day 
Blanch'd in our annals, and perpetual 

feast. 
When dames and heroines of the 

golden year 



Shall strip a hundred hollows bare of 

Spring, 
To rain an April of ovation round 
Their statues, borne aloft, the three : 

but come, 
We will be liberal, since our rights are 

won. 
Let them not lie in the tents with coarse 

mankind, 
111 nurses ; but descend, and proffer 

these 
The brethren of our blood and cause, 

that there 
Lie bruised and maim'd, the tender 

ministries 
Of female hands and hospitality." 

She spoke, and with the babe yet in 

her arms, 
Descending, burst the great bronze 

valves, and led 
A hundred maids in train across the 

Park. 
Some cowl'd, and some bare-headed, 

on they came, 
Their feet in flowers, her loveliest : by 

them went 
The enamor'd air sighing, and on their 

curls 
From the high tree the blossom wa- 
vering fell, 
And over them the tremulous isles of 

light, 
Slided, they moving under shade : but 

Blanche 
At distance folio w'd : so they came : 

anon 
Thro' open field into the lists they 

wound 
Timorously ; and as the leader of the 

herd 
That holds a stately fretwork to the 

Sun, 
And follow'd up by a hundred airy 

does, 
Steps with a tender foot, light as on air, 
The lovely, lordly creature floated 

on 
To where her wounded brethren lay ; 

there stay'd ; 
Knelt on one knee, — the child on one, 

— and prest 
Their hands, and call'd them dear de- 
liverers, 



A MEDLEY. 



155 



And happy warriors, and immortal 

names, 
And said, " You shall not lie in the 

tents'but here, 
And nursed by those for whom you 

fought, and served 
With female hands and hospitality." 

Then, whether moved by this, or 

was it chance, 
She past my way. Up started from 

my side 
The old lion, glaring with his whelp- 
less eye, 
Silent ; but when she saw me lying 

stark, 
Dishelm'd and mute, and motionlessly 

pale, 
Cold ev'n to her, she sigh'd ; and when 

she saw 
The haggard father's face and reverend 

beard 
Of grisly twine, all dabbled with the 

blood 
Of his own son, shudder'd, a twitch of 

pain 
Tortured her mouth, and o'er her fore- 
head past 
A shadow, and her hue changed, and 

she said : 
" He saved my life : my brother slew 

him for it." 
No more : at which the king in bitter 

scorn 
Drew from my neck the painting and 

the tress, 
And held them up : she saw them, and 

a day 
Rose from the distance on her memory, 
When the good Queen, her mother, 

shore the tress 
With kisses, ere the days of Lady 

Blanche : 
And then once more she look'd at my 

pale face : 
Till understanding all the foolish work 
Of Fancy, and the bitter close of all, 
Her iron will was broken in her mind ; 
Her noble heart was molten in her 

breast ; 
She bowd, she set the child on the 

earth ; she laid 
A feeling finger on my brows, and 

presently 



" O Sire," she said, " he lives : he is 

not dead : 
O let me have him with my brethren 

here 
In our own palace : we will tend on him 
Like one of these ; if so, by any means, 
To lighten this great c*og of thanks, 

that make 
Our progress falter to the woman's 

goal." 

She said : but at the happy word 

" he lives," 
My father stoop'd, re-father'd o'er my 

wounds. 
So those two foes above my fallen 

life, 
With brow to brow like night and 

evening mixt 
Their dark and gray, while Psyche 

ever stole 
A little nearer, till the babe that by us, 
Half-lapt in glowing gauze and golden 

brede, 
Lay like a new-fall'n meteor on the 

grass, 
Uncared for, spied its mother and be- 
gan 
A blind and babbling laughter, and to 

dance 
Its body, and reach its fatling innocent 

arms 
And lazy lingering fingers. She the 

appeal 
Brook'd not, but clamoring out " Mine 

— mine — not yours, 
It is not yours, but mine : give me the 

child," 
Ceased all on tremble : piteous was the 

cry : 
So stood the unhappy mother open- 

mouth'd, 
And turn'd each face her way : wan 

was her cheek 
With hollow watch, her blooming man- 
tle torn, 
Red grief and mother's hunger in her 

eye, 
And down dead-heavy sank her curls, 

and half 
The sacred mother's bosom, panting, 

burst 
The laces toward her babe ; but she 

nor cared 



156 



THE PRINCESS. 



Nor knew it, clamoring on, till Ida 

heard, 
LOok'd up, and rising slowly from me, 

stood 
Erect and silent, striking with her 

glance 
The mother, me, the child ; but he 

that lay 
Beside us, Cyril, batter'd as he was, 
Trail'd himself up on one knee : then 

he drew 
Her robe to meet his lips, and down 

she look'd 
At the arm'd man sideways, pitying, as 

it seem'd, 
Or self-invo]ved ; but when she learnt 

his face, 
Remembering his ill-omen'd song, 

arose 
Once more thro' all her height, and 

o'er him grew 
Tall as a figure lengthen'd on the sand 
When the tide ebbs in sunshine, and 

he said : 

" O fair and strong and terrible ! 

Lioness 
That with your long locks play the Li- 
on's mane ! 
But Love and Nature, these are two 

more terrible 
And stronger. See, your foot is on 

our necks, 
We vanquish' d, you the Victor of your 

will. 
What would you more? give her the 

child ! remain 
Orb'd in your isolation : he is dead, 
Or all as dead : henceforth we let you 

be : 
Win you the hearts of women ; and 

beware 
Lest, where you seek the common love 

of these, 
The common hate with the revolving 

wheel 
Should drag you down, and some great 

Nemesis 
Break from a darken'd future, crown'd 

with fire, 
And tread you out forever : but how- 

soe'er 
Fix'd in yourself, never in your own 

arms 



To hold your own, deny not hers to 

her, 
Give her the child ! O if, I say, you 

keep 
One pulse that beats true woman, if 

you loved 
The breast that fed or arm that dan- 
dled you, 
Or own one part of sense not flint to 

prayer, 
Give her the child ! or if you scorn to 

lay it, 
Yourself, in hands so lately claspt with 

yours, 
Or speak to her, your dearest, her one 

fault 
The tenderness, not yours, that could 

not kill, 
Give me it ; / will give it her." 

He said : 
At first her eye with slow dilation roll'd 
Dry flame, she listening; after sank 

and sank 
And, into mournful twilight mellowing, 

dwelt 
Full on the child ; she took it : " Pret- 
ty bud ! 
Lily of the vale ! half open'd bell of the 

woods ! 
Sole comfort of my dark hour, when a 

world 
Of traitorous friend and broken system 

made 
No purple in the distance, mystery, 
Pledge of a love not to be mine, fare- 

*" well ; 
These men are hard upon us as of 

old, 
We two must part : and yet how fain 

was I 
To dream thy cause embraced in mine, 

to think 
I might be something to thee, when I 

' felt 
Thy helpless warmth about my barren 

breast 
In the dead prime : but may thy moth- 
er prove 
As true to thee as false, false, false to 

me ! 
And, if thou needs must bear the yoke, 

I wish it 
Gentle as freedom " — here she kiss'd 

it: then — 



A MEDLEY. 



i57 



"All good go with thee ! take it, Sir," 

and so 
Laid the soft babe in his hard-mailed 

hands, 
Who turn'd ' half-round to Psyche as 

she sprang 
To meet it, with an eye that swum in 

thanks ; 
Then felt it sound and whole from head 

to foot, 
And hugg'd and never hugg'd it close 

enough, 
And in her hunger mouth'd and mum- 
bled it, 
And hid her bosom with it ; after that 
Put on more calm and added suppli- 

antly : 

" We two were friends : I go to mine 
own land 
Forever : find some other : as for me 
I scarce am fit for your great plans : 

yet speak to me, 
Say one soft word and let me part for- 
given." 

But Ida spoke not, rapt upon the 

child. 
Then Arac. "Ida — 'sdeath ! you 

blame the man ; 
You wrong yourselves — the woman is 

so hard 
Upon the woman. Come, a grace to 

me ! 
I am your warrior ; I and mine have 

fought 
Your battle : kiss her ; take her hand, 

she weeps : 
'Sdeath ! I would sooner fight thrice 

o'er than see it." 

But Ida spoke not, gazing on the 

ground, 
And reddening in the furrows of his 

chin, 
And moved beyond his custom, Gama 

said: 

" I 've heard that there is iron in the 

blood, 
And I believe it. Not one word ? not 

one? 
Whence drew you this steel temper? 

not from me, 



Not from your mother now a saint with 

saints. 
She said you had a heart — I heard her 

say it — 
'Our Ida has a heart' — just ere she 

died — ■ 
' But see that some one with authority 
Be near her still,' and I — I sought for 

one — 
All people said she had authority — 
The Lady Blanche : much profit ! Not 

one word ; 
No ! tho' your father sues : see how 

you stand 
Stiff as Lot's wife, and all the good 

knights maim'd, 
I trust that there is no one hurt to 

death. 
For your wild whim • and was it then 

for this, 
Was it for this we gave our palace up, 
Where we withdrew from summer 

heats and state, 
And had our wine and chess beneath 

the planes, 
And many a pleasant hour with her 

that 's gone, 
Ere you were born to vex us? Is it 

kind? 
Speak to her I say : is this not she of 

whom, 
When first she came, all flush'd you 

said to me 
Now had you got a friend of your own 

age, 
Now could you share your thought ; 

now should men see 
Two women faster welded in one love 
Than pairs of wedlock ; she you walk'd 

with, she 
You talk'd with, whole nights long, up 

in the tower, 
Of sine and arc, spheroid and azimuth, 
And right ascension, Heaven knows 

what ; and now 
A word, but one, one little kindly word, 
Not one to spare her : out upon you, 

flint! 
You love nor her, nor me, nor any ; nay, 
You shame your mother's judgment 

too. Not one ? 
You will not? well — no heart have 

you, or such 
As fancies like the vermin in a nut 



i 5 8 



THE PRINCESS: 



Have fretted all to dust and bitter- 
ness." 

So said the small king moved beyond 
his wont. 

But Ida stood nor spoke, drain'd of 

her force 
By many a varying influence and so 

long. 
Down thro' her limbs a drooping lan- 
guor wept : 
Her head a little bent ; and on her 

mouth 
A doubtful smile dwelt like a clouded 

moon 
In a still water : then brake out my sire 
Lifting his grim head from my wounds. 

" O you, . 
Woman, whom we thought woman 

even now, 
And were half fool'd to let you tend 

our son. 
Because he might have wish'd it — but 

we see 
The accomplice of your madness un- 

forgiven, 
And think that you might mix his 

draught with death, 
When your skies change again : the 

rougher hand 
Is safer : on to the tents : take up the 

Prince." 

He rose, and while each ear was 
prick' d to attend 
A tempest, thro' the cloud that dimm'd 

her broke 
A genial warmth and light once more, 

and shone 
Thro' glittering drops on her sad friend. 
" Come hither, 

Psyche," she cried out, "embrace 

me, come, 

Quick while I melt ; make reconcile- 
ment sure 

With one that cannot keep her mind 
an hour : 

Come to the hollow heart they slander 
so ! 

Kiss and be friends, like children be- 
ing chid ! 

/ seem no more : / want forgiveness 
too : 

1 should have had to do with none but 

maids, 



That have no links with men. Ah 

false but dear, 
Dear traitor, too much loved, why? — 

why? — Yet see, 
Before these kings we embrace you yet 

once more 
With all forgiveness, all oblivion, 
And trust, not love, you less. 

And now, O Sire, 
Grant me your son, to nurse, to wait 

upon him, 
Like mine own brother. For my debt 

to him, 
This nightmare weight of gratitude, I 

know it ; 
Taunt me no more : yourself and yours 

shall have 
Free adit ; we will scatter all our maids 
Till happier times each to her proper 

hearth : 
What use to keep them here now? 

grant my prayer. 
Help, father, brother, help ; speak to 

the king : 
Thaw this male nature to some touch 

of that 
Which kills me with myself, and drags 

me down 
From my fixt height to mob me up 

with all 
The soft and milky rabble of woman- 
kind, 
Poor weakling ev'n as they are." 

Passionate tears 
Follow'd : the king replied not : Cyril 

said : 
" Your brother, Lady, — Florian, — 

ask for him 
Of your great head — for he is wounded 

too — 
That you may tend upon him with the 

prince." 
" Ay so," said Ida with a bitter smile, 
" Our laws are broken : let him enter 

too." 
Then Violet, she that sang the mourn- 
ful song, 
And had a cousin tumbled on the plain, 
Petition'd too for him. ''Ay so," she 

said, 
" I stagger in the stream : I cannot 

keep 
My heart an eddy from the brawling 

hour: 



A MEDLEY. 



159 



We break our laws with ease, but let it 

be." 
"Ay so?" said Blanche: "Amazed 

am I to hear 
Your Highness : but your Highness 

breaks with ease 
The law your Highness did not make : 

't was I. 
I had been wedded wife, I knew man- 
kind, 
And block'd them out ; but these men 

came to woo 
Your Highness — verily I think to 

win." 

So she, and turn'd askance a wintry 

eye : 
But Ida with a voice, that like a bell 
TolPd by an earthquake in a trembling 

tower, 
Rang ruin, answer'd full of grief and 

scorn. 

" Fling our doors wide ! all, all, not 

one, but all, 
Not only he, but by my mother's soul, 
Whatever man lies wounded, friend or 

foe, 
Shall enter, if he will. Let our girls 

flit, 
Till the storm die ! but had you stood 

by us, 
The roar that breaks the Pharos from 

his base 
Had left us rock. She fain would sting 

us too, 
But shall not. Pass, and mingle with 

your likes. 
We brook no further insult but are 

gone." 

She turn'd ; the very nape of her 

white neck 
Was rosed with indignation : but the 

Prince 
Her brother came ; the king her father 

charm 'd 
Her wounded soul with words : nor did 

mine own 
Refuse her proffer, lastly gave his hand. 

Then us they lifted up, dead weights, 
and bare 
Straight to the doors: to them the 
doors gave way 



Groaning, and in the Vestal entry 

shriek'd 
The virgin marble under iron heels : 
And on they moved and gain'd the hall, 

and there 
Rested : but great the crush was, and 

each base, 
To left and right, of those tall columns 

drown 'd 
In silken fluctuation and the swarm 
Of female whisperers : at the further end 
Was Ida by the throne, the two great 

cats 
Close by her, like supporters on a 

shield, 
Bow-back'd with fear : but in the cen- 
tre stood 
The common men with rolling eyes ; 

amazed 
They glared upon the women, and 

aghast 
The women stared at these, all silent, 

save 
When armor clash'd or jingled, while 

the day, 
Descending, struck athwart the hall, 

and shot 
A flying splendor out of brass and steel, 
That o'er the statues leapt from head 

to head, 
Now fired an angry Pallas on the helm, 
Now set a wrathful Dian's moon on 

flame, 
And now and then an echo started up, 
And shuddering fled from room to 

_ room, and died 
Of fright in far apartments. 

Then the voice 
Of Ida sounded, issuing ordinance : 
And me they bore up the broad stairs, 

and thro' 
The long-laid galleries past a hundred 

doors 
To one deep chamber shut from sound, 

and due 
To languid limbs and sickness ; left me 

in it ; 
And others otherwhere they laid ; and 

all 
That afternoon a sound arose of hoof 
And chariot, many a maiden passing 

home 
Till happier times ; but some were left 

of those 



i6o 



THE PRINCESS: 



Held sagest, and the great lords out 

and in, 
From those two hosts that lay beside 

the walls, 
Walk'd at their will, and everything 

was changed. 



Ask me no more : the moon may draw 
the sea ; 
The cloud may stoop from heaven 

and take the shape, 
With fold to fold, of mountain or of 
cape ; 
But O too fond, when have I answer'd 
thee ? 

Ask me no more. 

Ask me no more : what answer should 
I give ? 
I love not hollow cheek or faded eye : 
Yet, O my friend, I will not have 
thee die ! 
Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee 
live ; 

Ask me no more. 

Ask me no more : thy fate and mine 
are seal'd : 
I strove against the stream and all in 

vain : 
Let the great river take me to the 
main : 
No more, dear love, for at a touch I 
yield ; 

Ask me no more. 



VII. 

So was their sanctuary violated, 
So their fair college turn'd to hospital ; 
At first with all confusion : by and by 
Sweet order lived again with other 

laws : 
A kindlier influence reign'd ; and ev- 
erywhere 
Low voices with the ministering hand 
Hung round the sick : the maidens 

came, they talk'd, 
They sang, they read : till she not fair, 
began 



To gather light, and she that was, be- 
came 

Her former beauty treble ; and to and 
fro 

With books, with flowers, with Angel 
offices, 

Like creatures native unto gracious act, 

And in their own clear element, they 
moved. 

But sadness on the soul of Ida fell, 
And hatred of her weakness, blent 

with shame. 
Old studies faii'd ; seldom she spoke ; 

but oft 
Clomb to the roofs, and gazed alone 

for hours 
On that disastrous leaguer, swarms of 

men 
Darkening her female field : void was 

her use ; 
And she as one that climbs a peak to 

gaze 
O'er land and main, and sees a great 

black cloud 
Drag inward from the deeps, a wall of 

night, 
Blot out the slope of sea from verge to 

shore, 
And suck the blinding splendor from 

the sand, 
And quenching lake by lake and tarn 

by tarn 
Expunge the world : so fared she gaz- 
ing there ; 
So blacken'd all her world in secret, 

blank 
And waste it seem'd and vain ; till 

down she came, 
And found fair peace once more among 

the sick. 

And twilight dawn'd ; and morn by 
morn the lark 
Shot up and shrill'd in flickering gyres, 

but I 
Lay silent in the muffled cage of life : 
And twilight gloom'd ; and broader- 
grown the bowers 
Drew the great night into themselves, 

and Heaven, 
Star after star, arose and fell ; but I, 
Deeper than those weird doubts could 
reach me, lay 



A MEDLEY. 



161 



Quite sunder'd from the moving Uni- 
verse, 

Nor knew what eye was on me, nor the 
hand 

That nursed me,. more than infants in 
their sleep. 

But Psyche tended Florian ; with her 

oft 
Melissa came ; for Blanche had gone, 

but left 
Her child among us, willing she should 

keep 
Court-favor : here and there the small 

bright head, 
A light of healing, glanced about the 

couch, 
Or thro' the parted silks the tender face 
Peep'd, shining in upon the wounded 

man 
With blush and smile, a medicine in 

themselves 
To wile the length from languorous 

hours, and draw 
The sting from pain ; nor seem'd it 

strange that soon 
He rose up whole, and those fair char- 
ities 
Join'd at her side ; nor stranger seem'd 

that hearts 
So gentle, so employ'd, should close in 

love, 
Than when two dew-drops on the petal 

shake 
To the same sweet air, and tremble 

deeper down, 
And slip at once all-fragrant into one. 

Less prosperously the second suit 
obtain'd 

At first with Psyche. Not though 
Blanche had sworn 

That after that dark night among the 
fields, 

She needs must wed him for her own 
good name ; 

Not tho' he built upon the babe re- 
stored ; 

Nor tho' she liked him, yielded she, 
but fear'd 

To incense the Head once more ; till 
on a day 

When Cyril pleaded, Ida came be- 
hind 



Seen but of Psyche : on her foot she 

hung 
A moment, and she heard, at which 

her face 
A little flush'd, and she past on ; but 

each 
Assumed from thence a half-consent 

involved 
In stillness, plighted troth, and were 

at peace. 

Nor only these : Love in the sacred 

halls 
Held carnival at will, and flying struck 
With showers of random sweet on maid 

and man. 
Nor did her father cease to press my 

claim, 
Nor did mine own now reconciled ; 

nor yet 
Did those twin brothers, risen again 

and whole ; 
Nor Arac, satiate with his victory. 

But I lay still, and with me oft she 

sat : 
Then came a change ; for sometimes I 

would catch 
Her hand in wild delirium, gripe it 

hard, 
And fling it like a viper off, and shriek 
"You are not Ida"; clasp it once 

again, 
And call her Ida, tho' I knew her not, 
And call her sweet, as if in irony, 
And call her hard and cold which 

seem'd a truth : 
And still she fear'd that I should lose 

my mind, 
And often she believed that I should 

die : 
Till out of long frustration of her care, 
And pensive tendance in the all-weary 

noons, 
And watches in the dead, the dark, 

when clocks 
Throbb'd thunder thro' the palace 

floors, or call'd 
On flying Time from all their silver 

tongues — 
And out of memories of her kindlier 

days, 
And sidelong glances at my father's 

grief, 



l62 



THE PRINCESS: 



And at the happy lovers heart in heart — 
And out of hauntings of my spoken 

love, 
And lonely listenings to my mutter'd 

dream, 
And often feeling of the helpless hands, 
And wordless broodings on the wasted 

cheek — 
From all a closer interest flourished 

up, 
Tenderness touch by touch, and last, 

to these, 
Love, like an Alpine harebell hung 

with tears 
By some cold morning glacier ; frail at 

first 
And feeble, all unconscious of itself, 
But such as gather'd color day by day. 

Last I woke sane, but wellnigh close 

to death 
For weakness : it was evening : silent 

light 
Slept on the painted walls, wherein 

were wrought 
Two grand designs ; for on one side 

arose 
The women up in wild revolt, and 

storm 'd 
At the Oppian law. Titanic shapes, 

they cramm'd 
The forum, and half-crush'd among the 

rest 
A dwarflike Cato cower' d. On the 

other side 
Hortensia spoke against the tax ; be- 
hind, 
A train of dames : by axe and eagle 

sat, 
With all their foreheads drawn in Ro- 
man scowls, 
And half the wolf's-milk curdled in 

their veins, 
The fierce triumvirs ; and before them 

paused 
Hortensia, pleading : angry was her 

face. 

I saw the forms : I knew not where 

1 was : 
They did but seem as hollow shows ; 

nor more 
Sweet Ida : palm to palm she sat : the 

dew 



Dwelt in her eyes, and softer all her 

shape 
And rounder show'd : I moved : I 

sigh'd : a touch 
Came round my wris£, and tears upon 

my hand : 
Then all for languor and self-pity ran 
Mine down my face, and with what 

life 1 had, 
And like a flower that cannot all un- 
fold, 
So drenclvd it is with tempest, to the 

sun, 
Yet, as it may, turns toward him, I on 

her 
Fixt my faint eyes, and utter'd whis- 

peringly : 

" If you be, what I think you, some 

sweet dream, 
I would but ask you to fulfil yourself: 
But if you be that Ida whom I knew, 
I ask you nothing : only, if a dream, 
Sweet dream, be perfect. I shall die 

to-night. 
Stoop down and seem to kiss gae ere I 

die." 

I could no more, but lay like one in 

trance, 
That hears his burial talk'd of by his 

friends, 
And cannot speak, nor move, nor make 

one sign, 
But lies and dreads his doom. She 

turn'd ; she paused ; 
She stocp'd ; and out of languor leapt 

a cry ; 
Leapt fiery Passion from the brinks of 

death ; 
And I believed that in the living world 
My spirit closed with Ida's at the lips ; 
Till back I fell, and from mine arms 

she rose 
Glowing all over noble shame ; and all 
Her falser self slipt Irom her like a robe, 
And left her woman, lovelier in her 

mood 
Than in. her mould that other, when 

she came 
From barren deeps to conquer all with 

love ; 
And down the streaming crystal dropt ; 

and she 



A MEDLEY. 



163 



Far-fleeted by the purple island-sides, 
Naked, a double light in air and wave, 
To meet her Graces, where they deck'd 

her out 
For worship without end ; nor end of 

mine, 
Stateliest, for thee ! but mute she 

glided forth, 
Nor glanced behind her, and I sank 

and slept, 
Fill'd thro' and thro' with Love, a 

happy sleep. 

Deep in the night I woke : she, near 

me, held 
A volume of the Poets of her land : 
There to herself, all in low tones, she 

read. 

" Now sleeps the crimson petal, now 

the white ; 
Nor waves the cypress in the palace 

walk ; 
Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry 

font : 
The firefly wakens : waken thou with 

me. 

" Now droops the milkwhite pea- 
cock like a ghost, 
And like a ghost she glimmers on to 
me. 

" Now lies the Earth all Danae to 
the stars, 
And all thy heart lies open unto me. 

" Now slides the silent meteor on, 
and leaves 
A shining furrow, as thy thoughts in 
me. 

" Now folds the lily all her sweetness 
up, 
And slips into the bosom of the lake : 
So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and 

slip 
Into my bosom and be lost in me." 

I heard her turn the page ; she 
found a small 
Sweet Idyl, and once more, as low, she 
read : 

" Come down, O maid, from yonder 
mountain height : 



What pleasure lives in height (the 

shepherd sang) 
In height and cold, the splendor of the 

hills? 
But cease to move so near the Heav- 
ens, and cease 
To glide a sunbeam by the blasted 

Pine, 
To sit a star upon the sparkling spire ; 
And come, for Love is of the valley, 

come, 
For Love is of the valley, come thou 

down 
And find him ; by the happy thresh- 
old, he, 
Or hand in hand with Plenty in the 

maize, 
Or red with spirted purple of the vats, 
Or foxlike in the vine ; nor cares to 

walk 
With Death and Morning on the Sil- 
ver Horns, 
Nor wilt thou snare him in the white 

ravine, 
Nor find him dropt upon the firths of 

ice, 
That huddling slant in furrow-cloven 

falls 
To roll the torrent out of dusky doors : 
But follow ; let the torrent dance thee 

down 
To find him in the valley ; let the 

wild 
Lean-headed Eagles yelp alone, and 

leave 
The monstrous ledges there to slope, 

and spill 
Their thousand wreaths of dangling 

water-smoke, 
That like a broken purpose waste in 

air : 
So waste not thou ; but come ; for all 

the vales 
Await thee ; azure pillars of the hearth 
Arise to thee ; the children call, and I 
Thy shepherd pipe, and sweet is every 

sound, 
Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is 

sweet ; 
Myriads of rivulets hurrying thro' the 

lawn, 
The moan of doves in immemorial 

elms, 
And murmuring of innumerable bees." 



1 64 



THE PRINCESS: 



So she low-toned ; while with shut 

eyes I lay 
Listening ; then look'd. Pale was the 

perfect face ; 
The bosom with long sighs labor'd ; 

and meek 
Seem'd the full lips, and mild the lu- 
minous eyes, 
And the voice trembled and the hand. 

She said 
Brokenly, that she knew it, she had fail'd 
In sweet humility ; had fail'd in all ; 
That all her labor was but as a block 
Left in the quarry ; but she still were 

loath, 
She still were loath to yield herself to 

one, 
That wholly scorn'd to help their equal 

rights 
Against the sons of men, and barba- 
rous laws. 
She pray'd me not to judge their cause 

from her 
That wrong' d it, sought far less for 

truth than power 
In knowledge : something wild within 

her breast, 
A greater than all knowledge, beat her 

down. 
And she had nursed me there from 

week to week : 
Much had she learnt in little time. In 

part 
It was ill-counsel had misled the girl 
To vex true hearts : yet was she but a 

girl — 
" Ah fool, and made myself a Queen 

of farce ! 
When comes another such? never, I 

think 
Till the Sun drop dead from the signs." 
Her voice 
Choked, and her forehead sank upon 

her hands, 
And her great heart thro' all the fault- 

ful Past 
Went sorrowing in a pause I dared not 

break ; 
Till notice of a change in the dark world 
Was lis.pt about the acacias, and a bird, 
That early woke to feed her little ones, 
Sent from a dewy breast a cry for light : 
She moved, and at her feet the volume 

fell. 



" Blame not thyself too much," I 

said, "nor blame 
Too much the sons of men and barba- 
rous laws ; 
These were the rough ways of the world 

till now. 
Henceforth thou hast a helper, me, 

that know 
The woman's cause is man's : they rise 

or sink 
Together, dwarf 'd or godlike, bond or 

free : 
For she that out of Lethe scales with 

man 
The shining steps of Nature, shares 

with man 
His nights, his days, moves with him 

to one goal, 
Stays all the fair young planet in her 

hands — 
If she be small, slight-natured, miser- 
able, 
How shall men grow? but work no 

more alone ! 
Our place is much : as far as in us lies 
We two will serve them both in aiding 

her — 
Will clear away the parasitic forms 
That seem to keep her up but drag her 

down — 
Will leave her space to burgeon out of 

all 
Within her — let her make herself her 

own 
To give or keep, to live and learn and 

be 
All that not harms distinctive woman- 
hood. 
For woman is not undevelopt man, 
But diverse : could we make her as the 

man, 
Sweet love were slain : his dearest bond 

is this, 
Not like to like, but like in difference^ . 
Yet in the long years liker must they 

grow; 
The man be more of woman, she of 

man ; 
He gain in sweetness and in moral 

height, 
Nor lose the wrestling thews that throw 

the world ; 
She mental breadth, nor fail in child- 
ward care, 



A MEDLEY. 



its 



Nor lose the childlike in the larger 

mind ; 
Till at the last she set herself to man, 
Like perfect music unto noble words ; 
And so these twain, upon the skirts of 

Time, 
Sit side by side, full-summ'd in all 

their powers, 
Dispensing harvest, sowing the To-be, 
Self-reverent each and reverencing 

each, 
Distinct in individualities, 
But like each other ev'n as those who 

love. 
Then comes the statelier Eden back to 

men : 
Then reign the world's great bridals, 

chaste and calm : 
Then springs the crowning race of hu- 
mankind. 
May these things be ! " 

Sighing she spoke, " I fear 
They will not." 

" Dear, but let us type them now 
In our own lives, and this proud watch- 
word rest 
; Of equal ; seeing either sex alone 
Is half itself, and in true marriage lies 
Nor equal, nor unequal : each fulfils 
Defect in each, and always thought in 

thought, 
Purpose in purpose, will in will, they 

grow, 
The single pure and perfect animal, 
The two-cell'd heart beating, with one 

full stroke, 
Life." 

And again sighing she spoke : "A 
dream 
That once was mine ! what woman 

taught you this ? " 

"Alone," I said, "from earlier than 

I know, 
Immersed in rich foreshadowings of 

the world, 
I loved the woman : he, that doth not, 

lives 
A drowning life, besotted in sweet 

. sel (> 
Or pines in sad experience worse than 

death, 
Or keeps his wing'd aifections dipt 

with crime : 



Yet was there one thro' whom I loved 
her, one 

Not learned, save in gracious house- 
hold ways, 

Not perfect, nay, but full of tender 

/ wants, 

No Angel, but a dearer being, all dipt 

In Angel instincts, breathing Paradise, 

Interpreter between the Gods and men, 

Who look'd all native to her place, and 
_ yet 

On tiptoe seem'd to touch upon a 
sphere 

Too gross to tread, and all male minds 
perforce 

Sway'd to her from their orbits as they 
moved, 

And girdled her with music. Happy he 

With such a mother ! faith in woman- 
kind 

Beats with his blood, and trust in all 
things high 

Comes easy to him, and tho' he trip 
and fall 

He shall not blind his soul with clay." 
"But I," 

Said Ida, tremulously, "so all un- 
like— 

It seems you love to cheat yourself 
with words : 

This mother is your model. I have 
heard 

Of your strange doubts : they well 
might be : I seem 

A mockery to my own self. Never, 
Prince ; 

You cannot love me." 

" Nay but thee," I said, 

" From yearlong poring on thy pic- 
tured eyes, 

Ere seen I loved, and loved thee seen, 
and saw 

Thee woman thro' the crust of iron 
moods 

That mask'd thee from men's rever- 
ence up, and forced 

Sweet love on pranks of saucy boy- 
hood : now, 

Giv'n back to life, to life indeed, thro* 
thee, 

Indeed I love : the new day comes, the 
light 

Dearer for night, as dearer thou for 
faults 



i66 



THE PRINCESS: 



Lived over : lift thine eyes ; my doubts 
are dead, 

My haunting sense of hollow shows : 
the change, 

This truthful change in thee has kill'd 
it. Dear, 

Look up, and let thy nature strike on 
mine, 

Like yonder morning on the blind half- 
world ; 

Approach and fear not ; breathe upon 
my brows ; 

In that fine air I tremble, all the past 

Melts mist-like into this bright hour, 
and this 

Is morn to more, and all the rich to- 
come 

Reels, as the golden Autumn woodland 
reels 

Athwart the smoke of burning weeds. 
Forgive me, 

I waste my heart in signs : let be. 
My bride, 

My wife, my life. O we will walk this 
world, 

Yoked in all exercise of noble end, 

And so thro' those dark gates across 
the wild 

That no man knows. Indeed I love 
thee : come, 

Yield thyself up : my hopes and thine 
are one : 

Accomplish thou my manhood and thy- 
self; 

Lay thy sweet hands in mine and trust 
to me." 



CONCLUSION. 

So closed our tale, of which I give you 

all 
The random scheme as wildly as it 

rose : 
The words are mostly mine ; for when 

we ceased 
There came a minute's pause, and 

Walter said, 
" I wish she had not yielded ! " then 

to me, 
" What, if you drest it up poetically ! " 
So pray'd the men, the women : I gave 

assent : 



Yet how to bind the scatter'd scheme 

of seven 
Together in one sheaf? What style 

could suit ? 
The men required that I should give 

throughout 
The sort of mock-heroic gigantesque. 
With which we banter'd little Lilia 

first: 
The women — and perhaps they felt 

their power, 
For something in the ballads which 

they sang, 
Or in their silent influence as they sat, 
Had ever seem'd to wrestle with bur- 
lesque, 
And drove us, last, to quite a solemn 

close — 
They hated banter, wish'd for some- 
thing real, 
A gallant fight, a noble princess — why 
Not make her true-heroic — true-sub- 
lime? 
Or all, they said, as earnest as the close ? 
Which yet with such a framework 

scarce could be. 
Then rose a little feud betwixt the two, 
Betwixt the mockers and the realists : 
And I, betwixt them both, to please 

them both, 
And yet to give the story as it rose, 
I moved as in a strange diagonal, 
And maybe neither pleased myself nor 
them. 

But Lilia pleased me, for she took 

no part 
In our dispute : the sequel of the tale 
Had touch'd her; and she sat, she 

pluck' d the grass, 
She flung it from her, thinking : last, 

she fixt 
A showery glance upon her aunt, and 

said, 
"You — tell us what we are" who 

might have told, 
For she was cramm'd with theories out 

of books, 
But that there rose a shout : the gates 

were closed 
At sunset, and the crowd were swarm- 
ing now, 
To take their leave, about the garden 

rails. 



A MEDLEY. 



167 



So I and some went out to these : we 

climb'd 
The slope to Vivian-place, and turning 

saw 
The happy valleys, half in light, and 

half 
Far-shadowing from the west, a land 

of peace ; 
Gray halls alone among the massive 

groves ; 
Trim hamlets ; here and there a rustic 

tower 
Half-lost in belts of hop and breadths 

o^ wheat ; 
The shimmering glimpses of a stream ; 

the seas ; 
A red sail, or a white ; and far beyond, 
Imagined more than seen, the skirts 

of France. 

" Look there, a garden ! " said my 

college friend, 
The Tory member's elder son, "and 

there ! 
God bless the narrow sea which keeps 

her off, 
And keeps our Britain, whole within 

herself, 
A nation yet, the rulers and the 

ruled — 
Some sense of duty, something of a 

faith, 
Some reverence for the laws ourselves 

have made, 
Some patient force to change them 

when we will, 
Some civic manhood firm against the 

crowd — 
But yonder, whiff! there comes a- sud- 
den heat, 
The gravest citizen seems to lose his 

head, 
The kine; is scared, the soldier will not 

fight, 
The little boys begin to shoot and stab, 
A kingdom topples over with a shriek 
Like an old woman, and down rolls the 

world 
In mock heroics stranger than our own ; 
Revolts, republics, revolutions, most 
No graver than a school-boys' barring 

out ; 
Too comic for the solemn things they 



Too solemn for the comic touches in 
them. 

Like our wild Princess with as wise a 
dream 

As some of theirs — God bless the nar- 
row seas ! 

I wish they were a whole Atlantic 
broad." 

"Have patience," I replied, "our- 
selves are full 
Of social wrong ; and maybe wildest 

dreams 
Are but the needful preludes of the 

truth : 
For me, the genial day, the happy 

crowd, 
The sport half-science, fill me with a 

faith. 
This fine old world of ours is but a child 
Yet in the go-cart. Patience ! Give 

it time 
To learn its limbs : there is a hand that 

guides." 

In such discourse we gain'd the gar- 
den rails, 
And there we saw Sir Walter where he 

stood, 
Before a tower of crimson holly-oaks, 
Among six boys, head under head, and 

look'd 
No little lily-handed Baronet he, 
A great broad-shoulder'd genial Eng- 
lishman, 
A lord of fat prize-oxen and of sheep, 
A raiser of huge melons and of pine, 
A patron of some thirty charities, 
A pamphleteer on guano.and on grain, 
A quarter-sessions chairman, abler 

none ; 
Fair-hair'd and redder than a windy 

morn ; 
Now shaking hands with him, now 

him, of those 
That stood the nearest — now address' d 

to speech — 
Who spoke few words and pithy, such 

as closed 
Welcome, farewell, and welcome for 

the year 
To follow : a shout rose again, and 

made 
The long line of the approaching rook- 
ery swerve 



i68 



THE PRINCESS: A MEDLEY. 



From the elms, and shook the branches 

of the deer 
From slope to slope thro' distant ferns, 

and rang 
Beyond the bourn of sunset ; O, a shout 
More joyful than the city-roar that 

hails 
Premier or king ! Why should not 

these great Sirs 
Give up their parks some dozen times 

a year 
To let the people breathe? So thrice 

they cried, 
I likewise, and in groups they stream 'd 

away. 

But we went back to the Abbey, and 
sat on, 
So much the gathering darkness 
charm'd: we sat 



But spoke not, rapt in nameless rev- 
erie, 

Perchance upon the future man : the 
walls 

Blacken'd about us, bats wheel'd, and 
owls whoop' d, 

And gradually the powers of the night, 

That range above the region of the 
wind, 

Deepening the courts of twilight broke 
them up 

Thro' all the silent spaces of the worlds, 

Beyond all thought into the Heaven of 
Heavens. 

Last little Lilia, rising quietly, 
Disrobed the glimmering statue of Sir 

Ralph 
From those rich silks, and home well- 
pleased we went. 



IN ME MORI AM. 



169 



IN MEMORIAM. 



Strong Son of God, immortal Love, 
Whom we, that have not seen thy 

face, 
By faith, and faith alone, embrace, 

Believing where we cannot prove ; 

Thine are these orbs of light and shade ; 

Thou madest life in man and brute ; 

Thou madest Death ; and lo, thy 
foot 
Is on the skull which thou hast made. 

Thou wilt not leave us in the dust : 
Thou madest man, he knows not 

why ; 
He thinks he was not made to die ; 

And thou hast made him : thou art just. 

Thou seemest human and divine, 
The highest, holiest manhood, thou : 
Our wills are ours, we know not how ; 
•vQur wills are ours, to make them thine, j 

Our little systems have their day ; 
They have their day and cease to be : 
They are but broken lights of thee, 

And thou, O Lord, art more than they. 

We have but faith : we cannot know ; 

For knowledge is of things we see ; 

And yet we trust it comes from thee, 
A beam in darkness : let it grow. 

Let knowledge growfrom more to more, 
But more of reverence in us dwell ; 
That mind and soul, according well, 

May-make one music as before, 

But vaster. We are fools and slight ; 
We mock thee when we do not fear : 
But help thy foolish ones to bear ; 

Help thy vain worlds to bear thy light. 

Forgive what seem'd my sin in me ; 

What seem'd my worth since I be- 
gan ; 

For merit lives from man to man, 
And not from man, O Lord, to thee. 



Forgive my grief for one removed, 
Thy creature, whom I found so fair. 
I trust he lives in thee, and there 

I find him worthier to be loved. 

Forgive these wild and wandering cries, 
Confusions of a wasted youth ; 
Forgive them where theyfail in truth, 

And in thy wisdom make me wise. 
1849. 



IN MEMORIAM 
A. H. H. 

OBIIT MDCCCXXXIII. 

I held it truth, with him who sings 
To one clear harp in divers tones, 
That men may rise on stepping- 
stones 

Of their dead selves to higher things. 

But who shall so forecast the years, 
And find in loss a gain to match ? 
Or reach a hand thro' time to catch 

The far-off rnterest of tears? 

Let Love clasp Grief lest both be 

drown 'd, 

Let darkness keep her raven gloss : 

Ah, sweeter to be drunk with loss, 

To dance with death, to beat the 

ground, 
Than that the victor Hours should 
scorn 
The long result of love, and boast, 
" Behold the man that loved and lost 
But all he was is overworn." 

11. 

Old Yew, which graspest at the stones 
That name the under-lying dead, 
Thy fibres net the dreamless head, 

Thy roots are wrapt about the bones. 



170 



IN MEMORIAM. 



The seasons bring the flower again, 
And bring the firstling to the flock ; 
And in the dusk of thee, the clock 

Beats out the little lives of men. 

O not for thee the glow, the bloom, 
Who changest not in any gale, 
Nor branding summer suns avail 

To touch thy thousand years of gloom : 

And gazing on thee, sullen tree, 
Sick for thy stubborn hardihood, 
I seem to fail from out my blood 

And grow incorporate into thee. 



O sorrow, cruel fellowship, 

O Priestess in the vaults of Death, 
O sweet and bitter in a breath, 

What whispers from thy lying lip? 

"The stars," she whispers, "blindly 
run ; 

A web is wov'n_across the sky ; 

From out waste places comes a cry, 
And murmurs from the dying sun : 

"And all the phantom, Nature, 
stands, — 
With all the music in her tone, 
A hollow echo of my own, — 

A hollow form with empty hands." 

And shall I take a thing so blind, 
Embrace her as my natural good ; 
Or crush her, like a vice of blood, 

Upon the threshold of the mind? 



To Sleep I give my powers away ; 

My will is bondsman to the dark; 

I sit within a helmless bark, 
And with my heart I muse and say : 

O heart, how fares it with thee now, 
That thou shouldst fail from thy 

desire, 
Who scarcely darest to inquire, 

" What is it makes me beat so low?" 

Something it is which thou hast lost, 
Some pleasure from thine early years. 
Break, thou deep vase of chilling 
tears, 

That grief hath shaken into frost ! 



Such clouds of nameless trouble cross 
All night below the darken 'd eyes ; 
With morning wakes the will, and 
cries, 

" Thou shalt not be the fool of loss." 



I sometimes hold it half a sin v 
To put in words the grief I feel ; 
For words, like Nature, half reveal 

And half conceal the Soul within. 

,But, for the unquiet heart and brain, 
A use in measured language lies ; 
The sad mechanic exercise, 
Like dull narcotics, numbing pain. 

In words, like weeds, I '11 wrap me o'er, 
Like coarsest clothes against the 

cold; 
But that large grief which these en- 
fold 
Is given in outline and no more. 



One writes, that "Other friends re- 
main," 
That " Loss is common to the 

race," — 
And common is the commonplace, 
And vacant chaff well meant for grain. 

That loss is common would not make 
My own less bitter, rather more : 
Too common ! Never morning wore 

To evening, but some heart did break. 

O father, wheresoe'er thou be, 

Who pledgest now thy gallant son ; 
A shot, ere half thy draught be done, 

Hath still'd the life that beat from thee. 

O mother, praying God will save 
Thy sailor, — while thy head is 

bow'd, 
His heavy-shotted hammock-shroud 

Drops in his vast and wandering grave. 

Ye know no more than 1 who wrought 
At that last hour to please him well ; 
Who mused on all I had to tell, 

And something written, something 
thought ; 



IN MEMORIAM. 



171 



Expecting still his advent home : 
And ever met him on his way 
With wishes, thinking, here to-day, 

Or here to-morrow will he come. 

O somewhere, meek unconscious dove, 
That sittest ranging golden hair ; 
And glad to find thyself so fair, 

Poor child, that waitest for thy love ! 

For now her father's chimney glows 

In expectation of a guest ; 

And thinking " This will please him 
best," 
She takes a riband or a rose ; 

For he will see them on to-night ; 

And with the thought her color 
burns ; 

And, having left the glass, she turns 
Once more to set a ringlet right ; 

And, even when she turn'd, the curse 
Had fallen, and her future lord 
Was drown'd in passing thro' the 
ford, 

Or kill'd in falling from his horse. 

O what to her shall be the end? 

And what to me remains of good ? 

To her, perpetual maidenhood, 
And unto me no second friend. 



Dark house, by which once more I 
stand 
Here in the long unlovely street, 
Doors, where my heart was used to 
beat 
So quickly, waiting for a hand, 

A hand that can be clasp' d no more, — 
Behold me, for I cannot sleep, 
And like a guilty thing I creep 

At earliest morning to the door. 

He is not here ; but far away ( 
The noise of life begins again, 
And ghastly thro' the drizzling rain 

On the bald street breaks the blank day. 

VIII. 

A happy lover who has come 

To look on her that loves him well, 
Who 'lights and rings the gateway 
bell, 

And learns her gone and far from home ; 



He saddens, all the magic light 
Dies off at once from bower and 

hall, 
And all the place is dark, and all 

The chambers emptied of delight : 

So find I every pleasant spot 

In which we two were wont to meet, 
The field, the chamber, and the 
street, 

For ail is dark where thou art not. J 

Yet as that other, wandering there 
In those deserted walks, may find 
A flower beat with rain and wind, 

Which once she foster'd up with 
care ; 

So seems it in my deep regret, 

my forsaken heart, with thee 
And this poor flower of poesy 

Which little cared for fades not yet. 

But since it pleased a vanish'd eye, 

1 go to plant it on his tomb, 
That if it can it there may bloom, 

Or dying, there at least may die. 



Fair ship, that from the Italian shore 
Sailest the placid ocean-plains 
With my lost Arthur's loved remains, 

Spread thy full wings, and waft him 
o'er. 

So draw him home to those that mourn 
In vain ; a favorable speed 
Ruffle thy mirror'd mast, and lead 

Thro' prosperous floods his holy urn. 

All night no ruder air perplex 

Thy sliding keel, till Phosphor, bright 
As our pure love, thro' early light 

Shall glimmer on the dewy decks. 

Sphere all your lights around, above ; 
Sleep, gentle heavens, before the 

prow ; 
Sleep, gentle winds, as he sleeps 
now, 
My friend, the brother of my love ; 

My Arthur, whom I shall not see 
Till all my widow'd race be run ; 
Dear as the mother to the son, 

More than my brothers are to me. 



172 



IN ME MORI AM. 



I hear the noise about thy keel ; 

I hear the bell struck in the night ; 

I see the cabin-window bright ; 
I see the sailor at the wheel. 

Thou bringest the sailor to his wife, 
And travell' d men from foreign lands; 
And letters unto trembling hands ; 

And, thy dark freight, a vanish' d life. 

So bring him : we have idle dreams : 
This look of quiet flatters thus 
Our home-bred fancies : O to us, 

The fools of habit, sweeter seems 

To rest beneath the clover sod, 

That takes the sunshine and the rains, 
Or where the kneeling hamlet drains 

The chalice of the grapes of God ; 

Than if with thee the roaring wells 
Should gulf him fathom-deep in 

brine ; • 

And hands so often clasp'd in mine 

Should toss with tangle and with shells. 



Calm is the morn without a sound, 
Calm as to suit a calmer grief, 
And only thro' the faded leaf 

The chestnut pattering to the ground : 

Calm and deep peace on this high wold, 
And on these dews that drench the 

furze, 
And all the silvery gossamers 

That twinkle into green and gold : 

Calm and still light on yon great plain 
That sweeps with all its autumn 

bowers, 
And crowded farms and lessening 
towers, 
To mingle with the bounding main : 

Calm and deep peace in this wide air, 
These leaves that redden to the fall ; 
And in my heart, if calm at all, 

If any calm, a calm despair : 

Calm on the seas, and silver sleep, 
And waves that sway themselves in 

rest, 
And dead calm in that noble breast 
Which heaves but with the heaving 
deep. 



Lo, as a dove when up she springs 
To bear thro' Heaven a tale of woe, 
Some dolorous message knit below 

The wild pulsation of her wings ; 

Like her I go ; I cannot stay ; 
I leave this mortal ark behind, 
A weight of nerves without a mind, 

And leave the cliffs, and haste away 

O'er ocean-mirrors rounded large, 
And reach the glow of southern skies, 
And see the sails at distance rise, 

And linger weeping on the marge, 

And saying, " Comes he thus, my 
friend ? 
Is this the end of all my care ? " 
And circle moaning in the air : 

" Is this the end ? Is this the end ? " 

And forward dart again, and play 
About the prow, and back return 
To where the body sits, and learn, 

That I have been an hour avWty. 



Tears of the widower, when he sees 
A late-lost form that sleep reveals, 
And moves his doubtful arms, and 
feels 

Her place is empty, fall like these ; 

Which weep a loss forever new, 
A void where heart on heart reposed ; 
And, where warm hands have prest 
and clos'd, 

Silence, till I be silent too. 

Which weep the comrade of my choice, 
An awful thought, a life removed, 
The human-hearted man I loved, 

A Spirit, not a breathing voice. 

Come Time, and teach me, many years, 

I do not suffer in a dream ; 

For now so strange do these things 
seem, 
Mine eyes have leisure for their tears ; 

My fancies time to rise on wing, 
And glance about the approaching 

sails, 
As tho' they brought but merchants* 
bales, 
And not the burthen that they bring. 



IN ME MORI AM. 



i73 



If one should bring me this report, 
That thou hadst touch'd the land to- 
day, ' 
And I went down unto the quay, 

And found thee lying in the port ; 

And standing, muffled round with woe, 
Should see thy passengers in rank 
Come stepping lightly down the 
plank, 

And beckoning unto those they know ; 

And if along with these should come 
The man I held as half-divine ; 
Should strike a sudden hand in mine, 

And ask a thousand things of home ; 

And I should tell him all my pain, 
And how my life had droop'd of late, 
And he should sorrow o'er my state 

And marvel what possess'd my brain ; 

And I perceived no touch of change, 
No hint of death in all his frame, 
But found bim all in all the same, 

I should not feel it to be strange. 



To-night the winds begin to rise 
And roar from yonder dropping day : 
The last red leaf is whirl 'd away, 

The rooks are blown about the skies ; 

The forest crack'd, the waters curl'd, 
The cattle huddled on the lea ; 
And wildly dash'd on tower and tree 

The sunbeam strikes along the world : 

And but for fancies, which aver 
That all thy motions gently pass 
Athwart a plane of molten glass, 

I scarce could brook the strain and 
stir 

That makes the barren branches loud ; 
And but for fear it is not so, 
The wild unrest that lives in woe 

Would dote and pore on yonder cloud 

That rises upward always higher, 
And onward drags a laboring breast, 
And topples round the dreary west, 

A looming bastion fringed with fire. 



What words are these have fall'n from 
me? 
Can calm despair and wild unrest 
Be tenants of a single breast, 

Or sorrow such a changeling be ? 

Or doth she only seem to take 
The touch of change in calm or 

storm ; 
But knows no more of transient form 

In her deep self, than some dead lake 

That holds the shadow of a lark 
Hung in the shadow of a heaven? 
Or has the shock, so harshly given, 

Confused me like the unhappy bark 

That strikes by night a craggy shelf, 
And staggers blindly ere she sink ? 
And stunn'd me from my power to 
think 

And all my knowledge of myself; 

And made me that delirious man 
Whose fancy fuses old and new, 
And flashes into false and true, 

And mingles all without a plan ? 



Thou comest, much wept for : such a 
. breeze 
Compell'd thy canvas, and my prayer 
Was as the whisper of an air 

To breathe thee over lonely seas. 

For I in spirit saw thee move 
Thro' circles of the bounding sky, 
Week after week : the days go by : 

Come quick, thou bringest all I love. 

Henceforth, wherever thou may'st 
roam, 
My blessing, like a line of light, 
Is on the waters day and night, 

And like a beacon guards thee home. 

So may whatever tempest mars 
Mid- ocean spare thee, sacred bark ; 
And balmy drops in summer dark 

Slide from the bosom of the stars. 

So kind an office hath been done, 
Such precious relics brought by thee ; 
The dust of him I shall not see 

Till all my widovv'd race be run. 



174 



IN ME MORI AM. 



XVIII. 

'T is well ; 't is something ; we may 
stand 
Where he in English earth is laid, 
And from his ashes may be made 

The violet of his native land. 

'T is little ; but it looks in truth 
As if the quiet bones were blest 
Among familiar names to rest 

And in the places of his youth. 

Come then, pure hands, and bear the 
head 
That sleeps or wears the mask of 

sleep, 
And come, whatever loves to weep, 
And hear the ritual of the dead. 

Ah yet, ev'n yet, if this might.be, 
I, falling on his faithful heart, 
Would breathing through his lips 
impart 

The life that almost dies in me ; 

That dies not, but endures with pain, 
And slowly forms the firmer mind, 
Treasuring the look it cannot find, 

The words that are not heard again. 



The Danube to the Severn gave 
The darken'd heart that beat no 

more ; 
They laid him by the pleasant shore, 

And in the hearing of the wave. 

There twice a day the Severn fills ; 
The salt sea-water passes by, 
And hushes half the babbling Wye, 

And makes a silence in the hills. 

The Wye is hush'd nor moved along, 
And hush'd my deepest grief of all, 
When fill'd with tears that cannot 
fall, 

I brim with sorrow drowning song. 

The tide flows down, the wave again 
Is vocal in its wooded walls ; 
My deeper anguish also falls, 

And I can speak a little then. 



The lesser griefs that may be said, 
That breathe a thousand tender vows, 
Are but as servants in a house 

Where lies the master newly dead ; 

Who speak their feeling as it is, 
And weep the fulness from the mind : 
" It will be hard," they say, " to find 

Another service such as this." 

My lighter moods are like to these, 
That out of words a comfort win ; 
But there are other griefs within, 

And tears that at their fountain freeze : 

For by the hearth the children sit 
Cold in that atmosphere of Death, 
And scarce endure to draw the breath, 

Or like to noiseless phantoms flit : 

But open converse is there none, 
So much the vital spirits sifcrfc 
To see the vacant chair, and think, 

"How good! how kind! and he is 
gone." 



I sing to him that rests below, 
And, since the grasses round me wave, 
I take the grasses of the grave, 

And make them pipes whereon to blow. 

The traveller hears me now and then, 
And sometimes harshly will he 

speak : 
" This fellow would make weakness 
weak, 
And melt the waxen hearts of men." 

Another answers, " Let him be, 
He loves to make parade of pain, 
That with his piping he may gain 

The praise that comes to constancy." 

A third is wroth, "Is this an hour 
For private sorrow's barren song. 
When more and more the people 
throng 

The chairs and thrones of civil power ? 

" A time to sicken and to swoon, 
When Science reaches forth her arms 
To feel from world to world, and 
charms 

Her secret from the latest moon?" 



IN ME MORI AM. 



i75 



Behold, ye speak an idle thing : 
Ye never knew the sacred dust : 
I do but sing because I must, 

And pipe but as the linnets sing : 

And one is glad ; her note is gay, 
For now her little ones have ranged ; 
And one is sad ; her note is changed, 

Because her brood is stol'n away. 



The path by which we twain did go, 
Which led by tracts that pleased us 

well, 
Thro' four sweet years arose and fell, 
From flower to flower, from snow to 
snow : 

And we with singing cheer'd the way, 
And crown'd with all the season lent, 
From April on to April went, 

And glad at heart from May to May : 

But where the path we walk'd began 
To slant the fifth autumnal slope, 
As we descended, following Hope, 

There sat' the Shadow fear'd of man ; 

Who broke our fair companionship, 
And spread his mantle dark and cold, 
And wrapt thee formless in the fold, 

And dull'd the murmur on thy lip, 

And bore thee where I could not see 
Nor follow, tho' I walk in haste, 
And think that somewhere in the 
waste 

The Shadow sits and waits for me. 

XXIII. 

Now, sometimes in my sorrow shut, 
Or breaking into song by fits, 
Alone, alone, to where he sits, 

The Shadow cloak' d from head to foot, 

Who keeps the keys of all the creeds, 
I wander, often falling lame, 
And looking back to whence I came, 

Or on to where the pathway leads ; 

And crying, " How changed from 
where it ran 
Thro' lands where not a leaf was 

dumb ; 
But all the lavish hills would hum 
The murmur of a happy Pan : 



" When each by turns was guide to each, 

And Fancy light from Fancy caught, 

And Thought leapt out to wed with 

Thought 

Ere Thought could wed itself with 

Speech ; 

" And all we met was fair and good, 
And all was good that Time could 

bring, 
And all the secret of the Spring 

Moved in the chambers of the blood; 

" And many an old philosophy 
On Argive heights divinely sang, 
And round us all the thicket rang 

To many a flute of Arcady." 



And was the day of my delight 
As pure and perfect as I say ? 
The very source and fount of Day 

Is dash'd with wandering isles of night. 

If all was good and fair we met, 
This earth had been the Paradise 
It never look'd to human eyes 

Since Adam left his garden yet. 

And is it that the haze of grief 

Makes former gladness loom so 

great? 
The lowness of the present state, 

That sets the past in this relief? 

Or that the past will always win 

A glory from its being far ; 

And orb into the perfect star 
We saw not, when we moved therein ? 



I know that this was Life, — the track 
Whereon with equal feet we fared ; 
And then, as now, the day prepared 

The daily burden for the back. 

But this it was that made me move 
As light as carrier-birds in air ; 
I loved the weight I had to bear, 

Because it needed help of love : 

Nor could I weary, heart or limb, 
When mighty Love would cleave in 

twain 
The lading of a single pain, 

And part it, giving half to him. 



176 



IN ME MORI AM. 



Still onward winds the dreary way ; 
I with it ; for I long to prove 
No lapse of moons can canker Love, 

Whatever fickle tongues may say. 

And if that eye which watches guilt 
And goodness, and hath power to see 
Within the green the moulder'd tree, 

And towers fall'n as soon as built, — 

O, if indeed that eye foresee 
Or see (in Him is no before) 
In more of life true life no more, 

And Love the indifference to be, 

Then might I find, ere yet the morn 
Breaks hither over Indian seas, 
That Shadow waiting with the keys, 

To shroud me from my proper scorn. 



I envy not in any moods 
The captive void of noble rage, 
The linnet born within the cage, 

That never knew the summer woods : 

I envy not the beast that takes 
His license in the field of time, 
Unfetter'd by the sense of crime, 

To whom a conscience never wakes ; 

Nor, what may count itself as blest, 
The heart that never plighted troth, 
But stagnates in the weeds of sloth ; 

Nor any want-begotten rest. 

I hold it true, whate'er befall ; 

I feel it, when 1 sorrow most ; 

'T is better to have loved and lost 
Than never to have loved at all. 



The time draws near the birth of 
Christ : 

The moon is hid ; the night is still ; 

The Christmas bells from hill to hill 
Answer each other in the mist. 

Four voices of four hamlets round, 
From far and near, on mead and 

moor, 
Swell out and fail, as if- a door 

Were shut between me and the sound : 



Each voice four changes on the wind, 
That now dilate, and now decrease, 
Peace and good-will, good-will and 
peace, 

Peace and good-will, to all mankind. 

This year I slept and woke with pain, 
I almost wish'd no more to wake, 
And that my hold on life would break 

Before I heard those bells again : 

But they my troubled spirit rule, 
For they controll'd me when a boy ; 
They bring me sorrow touch'd with 
joy, 

The merry, merry bells of Yule. 



With such compelling cause to grieve 
As daily vexes household peace, 
And chains regret to his decease, 

How dare we keep our ChristrAns-eve ; 

Which brings no more a welcome guest 
To enrich the threshold of the night 
With shower'd largess of delight, 

In dance and song and game and jest. 

Yet go, and while the holly-boughs 
Entwine the cold baptismal font, 
Make one wreath more for Use and 
Wont 

That guard the portals of the house ; 

Old sisters of a day gone by, 

Gray nurses, loving nothing new; 
Why should they miss their yearly 
due 

Before their time ? They too will die. 



With trembling fingers did we weave 
The holly round the Christmas 

hearth ; 
A rainy cloud possess'd the earth, 

And sadly fell our Christmas-eve. 

At our old pastimes in the hall 

We gamboll'd, making vain pretence 
Of gladness, with an awful sense 

Of one mute Shadow watching all. 

We paused : the winds were in the beech : 
We heard them sweep the winter land; 
And in a circle hand-in-hnnd 

Sat silent, looking each at each. 



IN MEMORIAM. 



177 



Then echo-like our voices rang ; 
We sung, tho' every eye was dim, 
A merry song we sang with him 

Last year: impetuously we sang : 

We ceased : a gentler feeling crept 
Upon us : surely rest is meet : 
"They rest," we said, "their sleep 
is sweet," 

And silence follow'd, and we wept. 

Our voices took a higher range ; 

Once more we sang : " They do not 

die 
Nor lose their mortal sympathy, 
Nor change to us, although they 
change ; 

" Rapt from the fickle and the frail 
With gather'd power, yet the same, 
Pierces the keen seraphic flame 

From orb to orb, from veil to veil." 

Rise, happy morn, rise, holy morn, 
Draw forth the cheerful day from 

night : 
O Father, touch the east, and light 
The light that shone when Hope was 
born. 

XXXI. 

When Lazarus left his charnel-cave, 
And home to Mary's house return'd, 
Was this demanded, — if he yearn'd 

To hear her weeping by his grave ? 

" Where wert thou, brother, those four 
days?" 
There lives no record of reply, 
Which telling what it is to die 

Had surely added praise to praise. 

From every house the neighbors met, 
The streets were fill'd with joyful 

sound, 
A solemn gladness even crown'd 

The. purple brows of Olivet. 

Behold a man raised up by Christ ! 

The rest remaineth unreveal'd ; 

He told it not ; or something seal'd 
The lips of that Evangelist. 

XXXII. 

Her eyes are homes of silent prayer, 
Nor other thought her mind admits 
But, he was dead, and there he sits, 

And he that brought him back is there. 



Then one deep love doth supersede 
All other, when her ardent gaze 
Roves from the living brother's face, 

And rests upon the Life indeed. 

All subtle thought, all curious fears, 
Borne down by gladness so complete, 
She bows, she bathes the Saviour's 
feet 

With costly spikenard and with tears. 

Thrice blest whose lives are faithful 
prayers, 
Whose loves in higher love endure ; 
What souls possess themselves so 
pure, 
Or is there blessedness like theirs ? 



XXXIII. 

O thou that after toil and storm 
Mayst seem to have reach'd a purer 

air, 
Whose faith has centre everywhere, 

Nor cares to fix itself to form, 

Leave thou thy sister, when she prays, 
Her early Heaven, her happy views ; 
Nor thou with shadow'd hint confuse 

A life that leads melodious days. 

Her faith thro' form is pure as thine, 
Her hands are quicker unto good : 
O, sacred be the flesh and blood 

To which she links a truth divine ! 

See thou, that countest reason ripe 
In holding by the law within, 
Thou fail not in a world of sin, 

And ev'n for want of such a type. 



My own dim life should teach me this, 
That life shall live forevermore, 
Else earth is darkness at the core, 

And dust and ashes all that is ; 

This round of green, this orb of flame, 
Fantastic beauty ; such as lurks 
In some wild Poet, when he works 

Without a conscience or an aim. 

What then were God to such as I ? 

'Twere hardly worth my while to 
choose 

Of things all mortal, or to use 
A little patience ere I die ; 



i 7 8 



IN ME MORI AM. 



'T were best at once to sink to peace, 
Like birds the charming serpent 

draws, 
To drop head-foremost in the jaws 

Of vacant darkness, and to cease. 



Yet if some voice that man could trust 
Should murmur from the narrow 

house, 
" The cheeks drop in ; the body 
bows ; 
Man dies : nor is there hope in dust " : 

Might I not say, "Yet even here, 
But for one hour, O Love, I strive 
To keep so sweet a thing alive " ? 

But I should turn mine ears and hear 

The moanings of the homeless sea, 
The sound of streams that swift or 

slow 
Draw down Ionian hills, and sow 

The dust of continents to be ; . 

And Love would answer with a sigh, 
" The sound of that forgetful shore 
Will change my sweetness more and 
more, 

Half-dead to know that I shall die." 

O me ! what profits it to put 
An idle case ? If Death were seen 
At first as Death, Love had not been, 

Or been in narrowest working shut, 

Mere fellowship of sluggish moods, 
Or in his coarsest Satyr-shape 
Had bruised the herb and crush'd 
the grape, 

And bask'd and batten'd in the woods. 



Tho' truths in manhood darkly join, 
Deep-seated in our mystic frame, 
We yield all blessing to the name • 

Of Him that made them current coin ; 

For Wisdom dealt with mortal powers, 
Where truth in closest words shall 

fail, 
When truth embodied in a tale 

Shall enter in at lowly doors. 



And so the Word had breath, and 
wrought 
With human hands the creed of creeds 
In loveliness of perfect deeds, 

More strong than ail poetic thought ; 

Which he may read that binds the 
sheaf, 
Or builds the house, or digs the 

grave, 
And those wild eyes that watch the 
wave 
In roarings round the coral reef. 



Urania speaks with darken'd brow : 
" Thou pratest here where thou art 

least ; 
This faith has many a purer priest, 

And many an abler voice than thou. 

" Go down beside thy native rill, 
On thy Parnassus set thy feet, 
And hear thy laurel whisper sweet 

About the ledges of the hill." 

And my Melpomene replies, 

A touch of shame upon her cheek : 
" I am not worthy ev'n to speak . 

Of thy prevailing mysteries ; 

" For I am but an earthly Muse, 
And owning but a little art 
To lull with song an aching heart, 

And render human love his dues ; 

" But brooding on the dear one dead, 
And all he said of things divine, 
(And dear to me as sacred wine 

To dying lips is all he said,) 

" I murmur'd, as I came along, 
Of comfort clasp'd in truth re veal' d ; 
And loiter'd in the Master's field, 

And darken'd sanctities with song." 



With weary steps I loiter on, 
Tho' always under alter'd skies 
The purple from the distance dies, 

My prospect and horizon gone. 

No joy the blowing season gives, 
The herald melodies of spring, 
But in the songs I love to sing 

A doubtful gleam of solace lives. 



IN MEMORIAM. 



179 



If any care for what is here 
Survive in spirits render' d free, 
Then are these songs I sing of thee 

Not all ungrateful to thine ear. 



Could we forget the widow'd hour, 
And look on Spirits breathed away, 
As on a maiden in the day 

When first she wears her orange-flower! 

When crown'd with blessing she doth 
rise 
To take her latest leave of home, 
And hopes and light regrets that 
come 
Make April of her tender eyes ; 

And doubtful joys the father move, 
And tears are on the mother's face, 
As parting with a long embrace 

She enters other realms of love ; 

Her office there to rear, to teach, 
Becoming, as is meet and fit, _ 
A link among the days, to knit 

The generations each with each ; 

And, doubtless, unto thee is given 
A life that bears immortal fruit 
In such great offices as suit 

The full-grown energies of heaven. 

Ay me, the difference I discern ! 
How often shall her old fireside 
Be cheer'd with tidings of the bride, 

How often she herself return, 

And te'l them all they would have told, 
And bring her babe, and make her 

boast, 
Till even those that miss'd her most 

Shall count new things as dear as old : 

But thou and I have shaken hands, 
Till growing winters lay me low ; 
My paths are in the fields I know, 

And thine in undiscover'd lands. 



Thy spirit ere our fatal loss 

Did ever rise from high to higher ; 
As mounts the heavenward altar-fire, 

As flies the lighter thro' the gross. 



But thou art turn'd to something 
strange, 
And I have lost the links that bound 
Thy changes ; here upon the ground, 

No more partaker of thy change. 

Deep folly ! yet that this could be, — 
That I could wing my will with might 
To leap the grades of life and light, 

And flash at once, my friend, to thee : 

For tho' my nature rarely yields 
To that vague fear implied in death ; 
Nor shudders at the gulfs beneath, 

The howlings from forgotten fields ; 

Yet oft when sundown skirts the moor 

An inner trouble I behold, 

A spectral doubt which makes me 
cold, 
That I shall be thy mate no more, 

Tho' following with an upward mind 
The wonders that have come to thee, 
Thro' all the secular to-be, 

But evermore a life behind. 



I vex my heart with fancies dim : 
He still outstript me in the race ; 
It was but unity of place 

That made me dream I rank'dwith him. 

And so may Place retain us still, 
And he the much-beloved again, 
A lord of large experience, train 

To riper growth the mind and will : 

And what delights can equal those 
That stir the spirit's inner deeps, 
When one that loves, but knows not, 
reaps 

A truth from one that loves and knows ? 



If Sleep and Death be t^uly one, 
And every spirit's folded bloom 
Thro' all its intervital gloom 

In some long trance should slumber on ; 

Unconscious of the sliding hour, 
Bare of the body, might it last, 
And silent traces of the past 

Be all the color of the flower : 



i8o 



IN ME MORI AM. 



So then were nothing lost to man ; 
So that still garden of the souls 
In many a figured leaf enrolls 

The total world since life began ; 

And love will last as pure and whole 
As when he loved me here in Time, 
And at the spiritual prime 

Rewaken with the dawning soul. 

XLIII. 

How fares it with the happy dead ? 

For here the man is more and more ; 

But he forgets the days before 
God shut the doorways of his hea*d. 

The days have vanish'd, tone and tint, 
And yet perhaps the hoarding sense 
Gives out at times (he knows not 
whence) 

A little flash, a mystic hint ; 

And in the long harmonious years 
(If Death so taste Lethean springs) 
May some dim touch of earthly 
things 

Surprise thee ranging with thy peers. 

If such a dreamy touch should fall, 
O turn thee round, resolve the doubt ; 
My guardian angel will speak out 

In that high place, and tell thee all. 



The baby new to earth and sky, 
What time his tender palm is prest 
Against the circle of the breast, 

Has never thought that " this is I " : 

But as he grows he gathers much, 
And learns the use of " I," and 

" me," 
And finds " I am not what I see, 

And other than the things I touch." 

So rounds he to a separate mind 
From whence clear memory may 

begin, 
As thro' the frame that binds him in 

His isolation grows defined. 

This use may lie in blood and breath, 
Which else were fruitless of their due, 
Had man to learn himself anew 

Beyond the second birth of Death. 



XLV. 

We ranging down this lower track, 
The path we came by, thorn and 

flower, 
Is shadow'd by the growing hour, 

Lest life. should fail in looking back. 

So be it : there no shade can last 
In that deep dawn behind the tomb, 
But clear from marge to marge shall 
bloom 

The eternal landscape of the past : 

A lifelong tract of time reveal'd ; 

The fruitful hours of still increase ; 

Days order'd in a wealthy peace, 
And those five years its richest field. 

O Love, thy province were not large, 
A bounded field, nor stretching far; 
Look also, Love, a brooding star, 

A rosy warmth from marge to margg, 



That each, who seems a separate 
whole, 
Should move his rounds, and fusing 

all 
The skirts of self again, should fall 
Remerging in the general Soul, 

Is faith as vague as all unsweet : 
Eternal form shall still divide 
The eternal soul from all beside ; 

And I shall know him when we meet : 

And we shall sit at endless feast, 
Enjoying each the other's good : 
What vaster dream can hit the mood 

Of Love on earth ? He seeks at least 

Upon the last and sharpest height, 
Before the spirits fade away, 
Some landing-place, to clasp and say, 

" Farewell ! We lose ourselves in 
light." 

XLVII. 

If these brief lays, of Sorrow born, 
Were taken to be such as closed 
Grave doubts and answers here pro- 
posed, 
Then these were such as men might 
scorn : 



IN ME MORI AM. 



181 



Her care is not to part and prove ; 

She takes, when harsher moods re- 
mit, . 

What slender shade of doubt may flit, 
And makes it vassal unto love : 

And hence, indeed, she sports with 
words, 
But betrer serves a wholesome law, 
And holds it sin and shame to draw 

The deepest measure from the chords : 

Nor dare she trust a larger lay, 
Bat rather loosens from the lip 
Short swallow-flights of song, that dip 

Their wings in tears, and skim away. 



From art, from nature, from the 
schools, 
Let random influences glance, 
Like light in many a shiver'd lance 

That breaks about the dappled pools : 

The lightest wave of thought shall lisp, 
The fancy's tenderest eddy wreathe, 
The slightest air of song shall 
breathe 

To make the sullen surface crisp. 

And look thy look, and go thy way, 
But blame not thou the winds that 

make 
The seeming-wanton ripple break, 

The tender-pencil'd shadow play. 

Beneath all fancied hopes and fears, 
Ay me ! the sorrow deepens down, 
Whose muffled motions blindly 
drown 

The bases of my life in tears. 



Be near me when my light is low, 
When the blood creeps, and the 

nerves prick 
And tingle ; and the heart is sick, 

Ai\d all the wheels of Being slow. 

Be near me when the sensuous frame 
Is rack'd with pangs that conquer 

trust ; 
And Time, a maniac scattering dust, 

And Life, a Fury slinging flame. 



Be near me when my faith is dry, 
And men the flies of latter spring, 
That lay their eggs, and sting and 
sing, 

And weave their petty cells and die. 

Be near me when I fade away, 
To point the term of human strife, 
And on the low dark verge of life 

The twilight of eternal day. 



Do we indeed desire the dead 

Should still be near us at our side ? 
Is there no baseness we would hide ? 

No inner vileness that we dread ? 

Shall he for whose applause I strove, 
I had such reverence for his blame, 
See with clear eye some hidden 
shame, 

And I be lessen'd in his love ? 

I wrong the grave with fears untrue : 
Shall love be blamed for want of faith ? 
There must be wisdom with great 
Death : 

The dead shall look me thro' and thro'. 

Be near us when we climb or fall : 
Ye watch, like God, the rolling hours 
With larger other eyes than ours, 

To make allowance for us all. 



I cannot love thee as I ought, 

For love reflects the thing beloved ; 
My words are only words, and moved 

Upon the topmost froth of thought. 

" Yet blame not thou thy plaintive 
song," 
The Spirit of true love replied ; 
" Thou canst not move me from thy 
side, 
Nor human frailty do me wrong. 

" What keeps a spirit wholly true 
To that ideal which he bears? 
What record? not the sinless years 

That breathed beneath the Syrian blue : 

" So fret not, like an idle girl, 
That life is dash'd with flecks of sin- 
Abide : thy wealth is gather'd in, 

When Time hath sunder'd shell from 
pearl." 



182 



IN MEMORIAM. 



How many a father have I seen, 
A sober man, among his boys, 
Whose youth was full of foolish noise, 

Who wears his manhood hale and 
green : 

And dare we to this fancy give, 

That had the wild-oat not been sown, 
The soil, left barren, scarce had 
grown 

The grain by which a man may live ? 

O, if we held the doctrine sound 
For life outliving heats of youth, 
Yet who would preach it as a truth 

To those that eddy round and round ? 

Hold thou the good : define it well : 
For fear divine Philosophy 
Should push beyond her mark, and be 

Procuress to the Lords of Hell. 



O yet we trust that somehow good 
Will be the final goal of ill, 
To pangs of nature, sins of will, 

Defects of doubt, and taints of blood ; 

That nothing walks with aimless feet ; 
That not one life shall be destroy'd, 
Or cast as rubbish to the void, 

When God hath made the pile com- 
plete ; 

That not a worm is cloven in vain ; 
That not a moth with vain desire 
Is shrivel'd in a fruitless fire, 

Or but subserves another's gain. 

Behold, we know not anything ; 
I can but trust that good shall fall 
At last — far off— at last, to all, 

And eveyy winter change to spring. 

So runs my dream : but what am I ? 
An infant crying in the night : 
An infant crying for the light : 

And with no language but a cry. 



The wish, that of the living whole 
No life may fail beyond the grave, 
Derives it not from what we have 

The likest God within the soul ? 



Are God and Nature then at strife, 
That Nature lends such evil dreams? 
So careful of the type she seems, 

So careless of the single life ; 

That I, considering everywhere 
Her secret meaning in her deeds, 
And finding that of fifty seeds 

She often brings but one to bear, 

I falter where I firmly trod, 
And falling with my weight of cares 
Upon the great world's altar-stairs 

That slope thro' darkness up to God, 

I stretch lame hands of faith, and 
grope, 
And gather dust and chaff, and call 
To what I feel is Lord of all, 

And faintly trust the larger hope. 



" So careful of the type ?" but no. 
From scarped cliff and quarried stone 
She cries, "A thousand types are 
gone : 

I care for nothing, all shall go. 

" Thou makest thine appeal to me : 
I bring to life, I bring to death : 
The spirit does but mean the breath : 

I know no more." And he, shall he, 

Man, her last work, who seem'd so fair, 
Such splendid purpose in his eyes, 
Who roll'd the psalm to wintry skies, 

Who built him fanes of fruitless prayer, 

Who trusted God was love indeed, 
And love Creation's final law, — 
Tho' Nature, red in tooth and claw 

With ravin, shriek' d against his 
creed, — 

Who loved, who suffer' d countless ills, 
Who battled for the True, the Just, 
Be blown about the desert dust, 

Or seal'd within the iron hills? 

No more? A monster then, a dream, 
A discord. Dragons of the prime, 
That tare each other in their slime, 

Were mellow music match'd with him. 

O life as futile, then, as frail ! 

O for thy voice to soothe and bless ! 

What hope of answer, or redress? - 
Behind the veil, behind the veil. 



IN ME MORI AM. 



183 



Peace ; come away : the song of woe 
Is after all an earthly song : 
Peace ; come away : we do him 
wrong 

To sing so wildly : let us go. 

Come ; let us go : your cheeks are 
pale ; 
But half my life I leave behind : 
Methinks my friend is richly shrined : 

But I shall pass ; my work will fail. 

Yet in these ears, till hearing dies, 
One set slow bell will seem to toll 
The passing of the sweetest soul 

That ever look'd with human eyes. 

I hear it now, and o'er and o'er, 
Eternal greetings to the dead ; 
And "Ave, Ave, Ave," said, 

"Adieu, adieu," forevermore. 



In those sad words I took farewell : 
Like echoes in sepulchral halls, 
As drop by drop the water falls 

In vaults and catacombs, they fell ; 

And, falling, idly broke the peace 
Of hearts that beat from day to day, 
Half conscious of their dying clay, 

And those cold crypts where they shall 
cease. 

The high Muse answer'd : " Where- 
fore grieve 

Thy brethren with a fruitless tear? 

Abide a little longer here, 
And thou shalt take a nobler leave." 

LVIII. 

O Sorrow, wilt thou live with me, 
No casual mistress, but a wife, 
My bosom-friend and half of life ; 

As I confess it needs must be ; 

O Sorrow, wilt thou rule my blood, 
Be sometimes lovely like a bride, 
And put thy harsher moods aside, 

If thou wilt have me wise and good. 

My centred passion cannot move, 
Nor will it lessen from to-day ; 
But I '11 have leave at times to play 

As with the creature of my love ; 



And set thee forth, for thou art mine, 
With so much hope for years to come, 
That, howsoe'er I know thee, some 

Could hardly tell what name were thine. 



He past ; a soul of nobler tone : 
My spirit loved and loves him yet, 
Like some poor girl whose heart is set 

On one whose rank exceeds her own. 

He mixing with his proper sphere, 
She finds the baseness of her lot, 
Half jealous of she knows not what, 

And envying all that meet him there. 

The little village looks forlorn ; 
She sighs amid her narrow days, 
Moving about the household ways, 

In that dark house where she was born. 

The foolish neighbors come and go, 
And tease her till the day draws by : 
At night she weeps, w How vain am I! 

How should he love a thing so low? " 



If, in thy second state sublime, 
Thy ransom' d reason change replies 
With all the circle of the wise, 

The perfect flower of human time ; 

And if thou cast thine eyes below, 
How dimly character'd and slight, 
How dwarf'd a growth of cold and 
night, 
How blanch' d with darkness must I 
grow ! 

Yet turn thee to the doubtful shore, 
Where thy first form was made a 

man ; 
I loved thee, Spirit, and love, nor can 

The soul of Shakespeare love thee 



Tho' if an eye that 's downward cast 
Could make thee somewhat blench 

or fail, 
Then be my love an idle tale, 

And fading legend of the past ; 

And thou, as one that once declined 
When he was little more than boy, 
On some unworthy heart with joy, 

But lives to wed an equal mind ; 



1 84 



IN MEMORIAM. 



And breathes a novel world, the while 
His other passion wholly dies, 
Or in the light of deeper eyes 

Is matter for a flying smile. 



Yet pity for a horse o'er-driven, 

And love in which my hound has part, 
Can hang no weight upon my heart 

In its assumptions up to heaven ; 

And I am so much more than these, 
As thou, perchance, art more than I, 
And yet I spare them sympathy, 

And I would set their pains at ease. 

So mayst thou watch me where I weep, 
As, unto vaster motions bound, 
The circuits of thine orbit round 

A higher height, a deeper deep. 



LXIII. 

Dost thou look back on what hath 
been, 
As some divinely gifted man, 
Whose life in low estate began 

And on a simple village green ; 

Who breaks his birth's invidious bar, 
And grasps the skirts of happy 

chance, 
And breasts the blows of circum- 
stance, 
And grapples with his evil star ; 

Who makes by force his merit known, 
And lives to clutch the golden keys, 
To mould a mighty state's decrees, 

And shape the whisper of the throne ; 

And moving up from high to higher, 
Becomes on Fortune's crowning 

slope 
The pillar of a people's hope, 

The centre of a world's desire ; 

Yet feels, as in a pensive dream, 

When all his active powers are still, 
A distant dearness in the hill, 

A secret sweetness in the stream, 

The limit of his narrower fate, 
While yet beside its vocal springs 
He play'd at counsellors and kings, 

With one that was his earliest mate ; 



Who ploughs with pain his native lea 
And reaps the labor of his hands, 
Or in the furrow musing stands : 

" Does my old friend remember me?" 

LXIV. 

Sweet soul, do with me as thou wilt ; 

I lull a fancy trouble-tost 

With " Love 's too precious to be 
lost, 
A little grain shall not be spilt." 

And in that solace can I sing, 

Till out of painful phases wrought 
There flutters up a happy thought, 

Self-balanced on a lightsome wing : 

Since we deserved the name of friends, 
And thine effect so lives in me^ 
A part of mine may live in thee, 

And move thee on to noble ends. 



You thought my heart too far diseased ; 
You wonder when my fancies play 
To find me gay among the gay, 

Like one with any trifle pleased. 

The shade by which my life was crost, 
Which makes a desert in the mind, 
Has made me kindly with my kind, 

And like to him whose sight is lost ; 

Whose feet are guided thro' the land, 
Whose jest among^ his friends is free, 
Who takes the children on his knee, 

And winds their curls about his hand : 

He plays with threads, he beats his 
chair 

For pastime, dreaming of the sky ; 

His inner day can never die, 
His night of loss is always there. 



When on my bed the moonlight falls, 
I know that in thy place of rest, 
By that broad water of the west, 

There comes a glory on the walls : 

Thy marble bright in dark appears, 
As slowly steals a silver flame 
Along the letters of thy name. 

And o'er the number of thy years. 



IN ME MORI AM. 



185 



The mystic glory swims away ; 

From off my bed the moonlight dies ; 

And, closing eaves of wearied eyes, 
I sleep till dusk is dipt in gray : 

And then I know the mist is drawn 
A lucid veil from coast to coast, 
And in the dark church, like a ghost, 

Thy tablet glimmers to the dawn. 



When in the down I sink my head, 
Sleep, Death's twin-brother, times 

. my breath ; 
Sleep, Death's twin-brother, knows 
not Death, 
Nor can I dream of thee as dead : 

I walk as ere I walk'd forlorn, 
When all our path was fresh with 

dew, 
And all the bugle breezes blew 

Reveillee to the breaking morn. 

But what is this ? I turn about, 
I find a trouble in thine eye, 
Which makes me sad, I know not 
why, 

Nor can my dream resolve the doubt : 

But ere the lark hath left the lea 
I wake, and I discern the truth ; 
It is the trouble of my youth 

That foolish sleep transfers to thee. 

LXVIII. 

I dream'd there would be Spring no 
more, 
That Nature's ancient power was 

lost: 
The streets were black with smoke 
and frost, 
They chatter'd trifles at the door : 

I wander'd from the noisy town, 

I found a wood with thorny boughs : 
I took the thorns to bind my brows, 

I wore them like a civic crown : 

I met with scoffs, I met with scorns 
From youth and babe and hoary 

hairs : 
They call'd me in the public squares 

The fool that wears a crown of thorns : 



They call'd me fool, they call'd me 
child : 
I found an angel of the night ; 
The voice was low, the look was 
bright ; 
He look'd upon my crown and smiled : 

He reach'd the glory of a hand, 
That seem'd to touch it into leaf: 
The voice was not the voice of grief ; 

The words were hard to understand. 



I cannot see the features right, 
When on the gloom I strive to paint 
The face I know ; the hues are faint 

And mix with hollow masks of night ; 

Cloud-towers by ghostly masons 
wrought, 
A gulf that ever shuts and gapes, 
A hand that points, and palled shapes 

In shadowy thoroughfares of thought ; 

And crowds that stream from yawning 
doors, 

And shoals of pucker' d faces drive ; 

Dark bulks that tumble half alive, 
And lazy lengths on boundless shores : 

Till all at once beyond the will 
I hear a wizard music roll, 
And thro' a lattice on the soul 

Looks thy fair face and makes it still. 



Sleep, kinsman thou to death and 
trance 
And madness, thou hast forged at last 
A night-long Present of the Past 

In which we went thro' summer France. 

Hadst thou such credit with the soul ? 
Then bring an opiate trebly strong, 
Drug down the blindfold sense of 
wrong 

That so my pleasure may be whole ; 

While now we talk as once we talk'd 
Of men and minds, the dust of 

change, 
The days that grow to something 
strange, 
In walking as of old we walk'd 



1 86 



IN MEMORIAM. 



Beside the river's wooded reach, 
The fortress, and the mountain ridge, 
The cataract flashing from the bridge, 

The breaker breaking on the beach. 



Risest thou thus, dim dawn, again, 
And howlest, issuing out of night, 
With blasts that blow the poplar 
white, 
And lash with storm the streaming 
pane? 

Day, when my crown'd estate begun 
To pine in that reverse of doom, 
Which sicken'd every living bloom, 

And blurr'd the splendor of the sun ; 

Who usherest in the dolorous hour 
With thy quick tears that make the 

rose 
Pull sideways, and the daisy close 

Her crimson fringes to the shower ; 

Who might'st have heaved a windless 
flame 
Up the deep East, or, whispering, 

play'd 
A chequer-work of beam and shade 
Along the hills, yet look'd the same, 

As wan, as chill, as wild as now ; 
Day, mark'd as with some hideous 

crime 
When the dark hand struck down 
thro' time, 
And cancell'd nature's best : but thou, 

Lift as thou may'st thy burthen'd brows 
Thro' clouds that drench the morn- 
ing star, 
And whirl the ungarner'd sheaf afar, 

And sow the sky with flying boughs, 

And up thy vault with roaring sound 
Climb thy thick noon, disastrous day ; 
Touch thy dull goal of joyless gray, 

And hide thy shame beneath the 
ground. 



So many worlds, so much to do, 
So little done, such things to be, 
How know I what had need of thee, 

For thou wert strong as thou wert true ? 



The fame is quench'd that I foresaw, 
The head hath miss'd an earthly 

wreath : 
I curse not nature, no, nor death ; 

For nothing is that errs from law. 

We pass ; the path that each man trod 
Is dim, or will be dim, with weeds : 
What fame is left for human deeds 

In endless age ? It rests with God. 

O hollow wraith of dying fame, 

Fade wholly, while the soul exults, 
And self-infolds the large results 

Of force that would have forged a name. 

LXXIII. 

As sometimes in a dead man's face, 
To those that watch it more and more, 
A likeness, hardly seen before, 

Comes out — to some one ornis race : 

So, dearest, now thy brows are cold, 
I see thee what thou art, and know 
Thy likeness to the wise below, 

Thy kindred with the great of old. 

But there is more than I can see, 
And what I see I leave unsaid, 
Nor speak it, knowing Death has 
made 

His darkness beautiful with thee. 



I leave thy praises unexpress'd 
In verse that brings myself relief, 
And by the measure of my grief 

I leave thy greatness to be guess 'd ; 

What practice howsoe'er expert 
In fitting aptest words to things, 
Or voice the richest-toned that sings, 

Hath power to give thee as thou wert ? 

I care not in these fading days 
To raise a cry that lasts not long, 
And round thee with the breeze of 
song 

To stir a little dust of praise. 

Thy leaf has perish'd in the green,, 
And, while we breathe beneath the 

sun, 
The world which credits what is done 

Is cold to all that might have been. 



IN MEMORIAM. 



187 



So here shall silence guard thy fame ; 
But somewhere, out of human view, 
Whate'er thy hands are set to do 

Is wrought with tumult of acclaim. 



Take wings of fancy, and ascend, 
And in a moment set thy face 
Where all the starry heavens of space 

Are sharpen'd to a needle's end ; 

Take wings of foresight ; lighten thro' 
The secular abyss to come, 
And lo, thy deepest lays are dumb 

Before the mouldering of a yew ; 

And if the matin songs, that woke 
The darkness of our planet, last, 
Thine own shall wither in the vast, 

Ere half the lifetime of an oak. 

Ere these have clothed their branchy 
bowers 

With fifty Mays, thy songs are vain ; 

And what are they when these remain 
The ruin'd shells of hollow towers ? 



What hope is here for modern rhyme 
To him who turns a musing eye 
On songs, and deeds, and lives, that lie 

Foreshorten' d in the tract of time ? 

These mortal lullabies of pain 
May bind a book, may line a box, 
May serve to curl a maiden's locks ; 

Or when a thousand moons shall wane 

A man upon a stall may find, 

And,passing, turn the page that tells 
A grief, then changed to something 
else, 

Sung by a long-forgotten mind. 

But what of that ? My darken'd ways 
Shall ring with music all the same ; 
To breathe myloss is more than fame, 

To utter love more sweet than praise. 



Again at Christmas did we weave 
The holly round the Christmas 

hearth ; 
The silent snow possess'd the earth, 

And calmly fell our Christmas-eve : 



The yule-clog sparkled keen with frost, 
No wing of wind the region swept, 
But over all things brooding slept 

The quiet sense of something lost. 

As in the winters left behind, 

Again our ancient games had place, 
The mimic picture's breathing grace, 

And dance and song and hoodman- 
blind. 

Who show'd a token of distress ? 
No single tear, no mark of pain : 

sorrow, then can sorrow wane ? 
O grief, can grief be changed to less ? 

O last regret, regret can die ! 

No, — mixt with all this mystic frame, 
Her deep relations are the same, 

But with long use her tears are dry. 

LXXVIII. 

" More than my brothersare to me," — 
Let this not vex thee, noble heart ! 

1 know thee of what force thou art 
To hold the costliest love in fee. 

But thou and I are one in kind, 
As moulded like in nature's mint ; 
And hill and wood and field did print 

The same sweet forms in either mind. 

For us the same cold streamlet curl'd 
Thro' all his eddying coves ; the same 
All winds that roam the twilight came 

In whispers of the beauteous world. 

At one dear knee we proffer'd vows, 
One lesson from one book we learn' d, 
Ere childhood's flaxen ringlet turn'd 

To black and brown on kindred brows. 

And so my wealth resembles thine, 
But he was rich where I was poor, 
And he supplied my want the more 

As his unlikeness fitted mine. 

LXXIX. 

If any vague desire should rise, 
That holy Death ere Arthur died 
Had moved me kindly from his side, 

And dropt the dust on tearless eyes ; 

Then fancy shapes, as fancy can, 
The grief my loss in him had wrought, 
A grief as deep as life or thought, 

But stay'd in peace with God and man. 



i88 



IN ME MORI AM. 



I make a picture in the brain ; 

I hear the sentence that he speaks ; 

He bears the burthen of the weeks ; 
But turns his burthen into gain. 

His credit thus shall set me free ; 

And, influence-rich to soothe and 
save, 

Unused example from the grave 
Reach out dead hands to comfort me. 



Could I have said while he was here, 
"My love shall now no further 

range ; 
There cannot come a mellower 
change, 
For now is love mature in ear." 

Love, then, had hope of richer store : 

What end is here to my complaint ? 

This haunting whisper makes me 

faint, 

"More years had made me love thee 

more." 

But Death returns an answer sweet : 
" My sudden frost was sudden gain, 
And gave all ripeness to the grain 

It might have drawn from after-heat." 



I wage not any feud with Death 
For changes wrought on form and 

face ; 
No lower life that earth's embrace 

May breed with him can fright my faith. 

Eternal process moving on, 

From state to state the spirit walks ; 

And these are but the shatter'd 
stalks, 
Or ruin'd chrysalis of one. 

Nor blame I Death, because he bare 
The use of virtue out of earth : 
I know transplanted human worth 

Will bloom to profit, otherwhere. 

For this alone on Death I wreak 
The wrath that garners in my heart ; 
He put our lives so far apart 

We cannot hear each other speak. 



Dip down upon the northern shore, 
O sweet new- year, delaying long ; 
Thou doest expectant nature wrong ; 

Delaying long, delay no more. 

What stays thee from the clouded 
noons, 

Thy sweetness from its proper place ? 

Can trouble live with April days, 
Or sadness in the summer moons ? 

Bring orchis, bring the foxglove spire, 
The little speedwell's darling blue, 
Deep tulips dash'd with fiery dew, 

Laburnums, dropping-wells of fire. 

O thou, new-year, delaying long, 
Delayest the sorrow in my blood, 
That longs to burst a frozen bud, 

And flood a fresher throat with song. 



When I contemplate all alone 

The life that had been thine below, 
And fix my thoughts on all the glow 

To which thy crescent would have 
grown ; 

I see thee sitting crown'd with good, 
A central warmth diffusing bliss 
In glance and smile, and clasp and 
kiss, 

On all the branches of thy blood ; 

Thy blood, my friend, and partly mine ; 
For now the day was drawing on 
When thou shouldst link thy life 
with one 

Of mine own house, and boys of thine 

Had babbled " Uncle " on my knee ; 
But that remorseless iron hour 
Made cypress of her orange-flower, 

Despair of" Hope, and earth of thee. 

I seem to meet their least desire, 
To clap their cheeks, to call them 

mine. 
I see their unborn faces shine 

Beside the never-lighted fire. 

I see myself an honor'd guest, 
Thy partner in the flowery walk 
Of letters, genial table-talk, 

Or deep dispute, and graceful jest ; 



FN ME MORI AM. 



189 



While now thy prosperous labor fills 
The lips of men with honest praise, 
And sun by sun the happy days 

Descend below the golden hills 

With promise of a morn as fair ; 

And all the train of bounteous hours 
Conduct bypaths of growing powers 

To reverence and the silver hair ; 

Till slowly worn her earthly robe, 
Her lavish mission richly wrought, 
Leaving great legacies of thought, 

Thy spirit should fail from off the globe; 

What time mine own might also flee, 
As link'd with thine in love and fate, 
And, hovering o'er the dolorous strait 

To the other shore, involved in thee, 

Arrive at last the blessed goal, 
And He that died in Holy Land 
Would reach us out the shining hand, 

And take us as a single soul. 

What reed was that on which I leant ? 
Ah, backward fancy, wherefore wake 
The old bitterness again, and break 

The low beginnings of content ? 



This truth came borne with bier and 
pall, 
I felt it, when I sorrow'd most, 
'Tis better to have loved and lost, 

Than never to have loved at all 

O true in word, and tried in deed, 
Demanding, so to bring relief 
To this which is our common grief, 

What kind of life is that I lead ; 

And whether trust in things above 
Be dimm'd of sorrow, or sustain'd ; 
And whether love for him have 
drain 'd 

My capabilities of love ; 

Your words have virtue such as draws 
A faithful answer from the breast, 
Thro' light reproaches, half exprest, 

And loyal unto kindly laws. 

My blood an even tenor kept, 
Till on mine ear this message falls, 
That in Vienna's fatal walls 

God's finger touch'd him, and he slept. 



The great Intelligences fair 

That range above our mortal state, 
In circle round the blessed gate, 

Received and gave him welcome there ; 

And led him thro' the blissful climes, 
And show'd him in the fountain fresh 
All knowledge that the sons of flesh 

Shall gather in the cycled times. 

But I remain'd, whose hopes were dim, 
Whose life, whose thoughts were 

little worth, 
To wander on a darken'd earth, 
Where all things round me breathed 
of him. 

O friendship, equal-poised control, 
O heart, with kindliest motion warm, 

sacred essence, other form, 

solemn ghost, O crowned soul ! 

Yet none could better know than I, 
How much of act at human hands 
The sense of human will demands, 

By which we dare to live or die. 

Whatever way my days decline, 

1 felt and feel, tho' left alone, 
His being working in mine own, 

The footsteps of his life in mine ; 

A life that all the Muses deck'd 

With gifts of grace, that might ex- 
press 
All-comprehensive tenderness, 

All-subtilizing intellect : 

And so my passion hath not swerved 
To works of weakness, but I find 
An image comforting the mind, 

And in my grief a strength reserved. 

Likewise the imaginative woe, 
That loved to handle spiritual strife, 
Diffused the shock thro' all my life, 

But in the present broke the blow. 

My pulses therefore beat again 

For other friends that once I met ; 
Nor can it suit me to forget 

The mighty hopes that make us men. 

1 woo your love : I count it crime 
To mourn for any overmuch ; 

I, the divided half of such 
A friendship as had master'd Time ; 



190 



IN MEMORIAM. 



Which masters Time indeed, and is 
Eternal, separate from fears : 
The all- assuming months and years 

Can take no part away from this : 

But Summer on the steaming floods, 
And Spring that swells the narrow 

brooks, 
And Autumn, with a noise of rooks, 

That gather in the waning woods, 

And every pulse of wind and wave 
Recalls, in change of light or gloom, 
My old affection of the tomb, 

And my prime passion in the grave : 

My old affection of the tomb, 
A part of stillness, yearns to speak : 
" Arise, and get thee forth and seek 

A friendship for the years to come. 

" I watch thee from the quiet shore ; 

Thy spirit up to mine can reach ; 

But in dear words of human speech 
We two communicate no more." 

And I, " Can clouds of nature stain 
The starry clearness of the free ? 
How is it ? Canst thou feel for me 

Some painless sympathy with pain ? " 

And lightly does the whisper fall : 
'"T is hard for thee to fathom this; 
I triumph in conclusive bliss, 

And that serene result of all." 

So hold I commerce w r ith the dead ; 

Or so methinks the dead would say ; 

Or so shall grief with symbols play, 
And pining life be fancy-fed. 

Now looking to some settled end, 
That these things pass, and I shall 

prove 
A meeting somewhere, love with love, 

I crave your pardon, O my friend ; 

If not so fresh, with love as true, 
I, clasping brother-hands, aver 
I could not, if I would, transfer 

The whole I felt for him to you. 

For which be they that hold apart 
The promise of the golden hours? 
First love, first friendship, equal 
powers, 

That marry with the virgin heart. 



Still mine, that cannot but deplore, 
That beats within a lonely place, 
That yet remembers his embrace, 

But at his footstep leaps no more, 

My heart, tho' widow'd, may not rest 
Quite in the love of what is gone, 
But seeks to beat in time with one 

That warms another living breast. 

Ah, take the imperfect gift I bring, 
Knowing the primrose yet is dear, 
The primrose of the later year, 

As not unlike to that of Spring. 



Sweet after showers, ambrosial air, 
That rollest from the gorgeous gloom 
Of evening over brake and bloom 

And meadow, slowly breathing bare 

The round of space, and rapt below 
Thro' all the dewy-tassell I'd wood, 
And shadowing down the horned 
flood 

In ripples, fan my brows and blow 

The fever from my cheek, and sigh 
The full new life that feeds thy breath 
Throughout my frame, till Doubt 
and Death, 

111 brethren let the fancy fly 

From belt to belt of crimson seas 
On leagues of odor streaming far, 
To where in yonder orient star 

A hundred spirits whisper " Peace." 



I past beside the reverend walls 
In which of old 1 wore the gown ; 
I roved at random thro' the town, 

And saw the tumult of the halls ; 

And heard once more in college fanes 
The storm their high-built organs 

make, 
And thunder-music, rolling, shake 

The prophets blazon'd on the panes ; 

And caught once more the distant 
shout, 
The measured pulse of racing oars 
Among the willows ; paced the shores 

And many a bridge, and all about 



IN ME MORI AM. 



191 



The same gray flats again, and felt 
The same, but not the same ; and last 
Up that, long walk of limes I past 

To see the rooms in which he dwelt. 

Another name was on the door : 
I linger' d ; all within was noise 
Of songs, and clapping hands, and 
boys 
That crash' d the glass and beat the 
floor; 

Where once we held debate, a band 
Of youthful friends, on mind and art, 
And labor, and the changing mart, 

And all the framework of the land ; 

When one would aim an arrow fair, 
But send it slackly from the string ; 
And one would pierce an outer ring, 

And one an inner, here and there ; 

And last the master-bowman, he 
Would cleave the mark. A willing 

ear 
We lent him. Who, but hung to 
hear 
The rapt oration flowing free 

From point to point, with power and 
grace 
And music in the bounds of law, 
To those conclusions when we saw 

The God within him light his face, 

And seem to lift the form, and glow 
In azure orbits heavenly-wise ; 
And over those ethereal eyes 

The bar of Michael Angelo. 

LXXXVII. 

Wild bird, whose warble, liquid sweet, 
Rings Eden thro' the budded quicks, 

tell me where the senses mix, 
O tell me where the passions meet, 

Whence radiate : fierce extremes em- 
ploy 
Thy spirits in the darkening leaf, 
And in the midmost heart of grief 

Thy passion clasps a secret joy : 

And I — my harp would prelude woe — 

1 cannot all command the strings ; 
The glory of the sum of things 

Will flash along the chords and go. 



LXXXVIII. 

Witch-elms that counterchange the 
floor 
Of this flat lawn with dusk and 

bright ; 
And thou, with all thy breadth and 
height 
Of foliage, towering sycamore ; 

How often, hither wandering down, 
My Arthur found your shadows fair, 
And shook to all the liberal air 

The dust and din and steam of town : 

He brought an eye for all he saw ; 

He mixt in all our simple sports ; 

They pleased him, fresh from brawl- 
ing courts 
And dusty purlieus of the law. 

O joy to him in this retreat, 
Immantled in ambrosial dark, 
To drink the cooler air, and mark 

The landscape winking thro' the heat : 

O sound to rout the brood of cares, 
The sweep of scythe in morning dew, 
The gust that round the garden flew, 

And tumbled half the mellowing pears ! 

O bliss, when all in circle drawn 
About him, heart and ear were fed 
To hear him, as he lay and read 

The Tuscan poets on the lawn : 

Or in the all-golden afternoon 
A guest, or happy sister, sung, 
Or here she brought the harp and 
flung 

A ballad to the brightening moon : 

Nor less it pleased in livelier moods, 
Beyond the bounding hill to stray, 
And break the livelong summer day 

With banquet in the distant woods ; 

Whereat we glanced from theme to 
theme, 
Discuss'd the books to love or hate, 
Or touch'd the changes of the state, 

Or threaded some Socratic dream ; 

But if I praised the busy town. 
He loved to rail against it still, 
For "ground in yonder social mill, 

We rub each other's angles down, 



XQ2 



IN MEMORIAM. 



"And merge," he said, "in form and 

gloss 

The picturesque of man and man." 

We talk'd : the stream beneath us 

ran, 

The wine-flask lying couch'd in moss, 

Or cool'd within the glooming wave ; 
And last, returning from afar, 
Before the crimson-circled star 

Had fall'n into her father's grave, 

And brushing ankle-deep in flowers, 
We heard behind the woodbine veil 
The milk that bubbled in the pail, 

And buzzings of the honeyed hours. 



He tasted love with half his mind^ 
Nor ever drank the inviolate spring 
Where nighest heaven, who first 
could fling 

This bitter seed among mankind ; 

That could the dead, whose dying eyes 
Were closed with wail, resume their 

life, 
They would but find in child and wife 

An iron welcome when they rise : 

*T was well, indeed, when warm with 
wine, 
To pledge them with a kindly tear, 
To talk them o'er, to wish them here, 

To count their memories half divine ; 

But if they came who passed away, 
Behold their brides in other hands ; 
The hard heir strides about their 
lands, 

And will not yield them for a day. 

Yea, tho' their sons were none of these, 
Not less the yet-loved ( sire would 

make 
Confusion worse than death, and 
shake 
The pillars of domestic peace. 

Ah dear, but come thou back to me : 
Whatever change the years have 

wrought, 
I find not yet one lonely thought 

That cries against my wish for thee. 



When rosy plumelets tuft the larch, 
And rarely pipes the mounted thrush ; 
Or underneath the barren bush 

Flits by the sea-blue bird of March ; 

Come, wear the form by which I know 
Thy spirit in time among thy peers ; 
The hope of unaccomplished years 

Be large and lucid round thy brow. 

When summer's hourly-mellowing 
change 
May breathe, with many roses sweet, 
Upon the thousand waves of wheat, 

That ripple round the lonely grange ; 

Come : not in watches of the night, 
But where the sunbeam broodeth 

warm, 
Come, beauteous in thin* after form, 

And like a finer light in light. 



If any vision should reveal 
Thy likeness, I might count it vahv 
As but the canker of the brain ; 

Yea, tho' it spake and made appeal 

To chances where our lots were cast 
Together in the days behind, 
I might but say, I hear a wind 

Of memory murmuring the past. 

Yea, tho' it spake and bared to view 
A fact within the coming year ; 
And tho' the months, revolving near, 

Should prove the phantom-warning 
true, 

They might not seem thy prophecies, 
But spiritual presentiments, 
And such refraction of events 

As often rises ere they rise. 



I shall not see thee. Dare I say 
No spirit ever brake the band 
That stays him from the native land, 

Where first he walk'd when claspt in 
clay? 

No visual shade of some one lost, 
But he, the Spirit himself, may come 
Where all the nerve of sense is numb ; 

Spirit to Spirit, Ghost to Ghost. 



IN ME MORI AM. 



*93 



O, therefore from thy sightless range 
With gods in unconjectured bliss, 
O, from the distance of the abyss 

Of tenfofd-complicated change, 

Descend, and touch, and enter ; hear 
The wish too strong for words to 

name ; 
That in this blindness of the frame 

My Ghost may feel that thine is near. 



How pure at heart and sound in head, 
With what divine affections bold, 
Should be the man whose thought 
would hold 

An hour's communion with the dead. 

In vain shalt thou, or any, call 
The spirits from their golden day, 
Except, like them, thou too canst say, 

My spirit is at peace with all. 

They haunt the silence of the breast, 
Imaginations calm and fair, 
The memory like a cloudless air, 

The conscience as a sea at rest : 

But when the heart is full of din, > 
And doubt beside the portal waits, 
They can but listen at the gates, 

And hear the household jar within. 

xciv. 
By night we linger' d on the lawn, 

For underfoot the herb was dry ; 

And genial warmth ; and o'er the sky 
The silvery haze of summer drawn ; 

And calm that let the tapers burn 
Unwavering : not a cricket chirr'd : 
The brook alone far-off was heard, 

And on the board the fluttering urn : 

And bats went round in fragrant skies, 
And wheel'd or lit the filmy shapes 
That haunt the dusk, with ermine 
capes 

And woolly breasts and beaded eyes ; 

While nowwe sang old songs that peal'd 
From knoll to knoll, where, couch'd 

at ease, 
The white kine glimmer'd, and the 
trees 
Laid their dark arms about the field. 
13 



But when those others, one by one, 
Withdrew themselves from me and 

night, 
And in the house light after light 

Went out, and I was all alone, 

A hunger seized my heart ; I read 
Of that glad year that once had been, 
In those fall'n Jeaves which kept 
their green, 

The noble letters of the dead : 

And strangely on the silence broke 
The silent-speaking words, and 

strange 
Was love's dumb cry defying change 

To test his worth ; and strangely spoke 

The faith, the vigor, bold to dwell 
On doubts that drive the coward 

back, 
And keen thro' wordy snares to track 

Suggestion to her inmost cell. 

So word by word, and line by line, 
The dead man touch' d me from the 

past, 
And all at once it seem'd at last 

His living soul was flash' d on mine, 

And mine in his was wound, and whirl'd 
About empyreal heights of thought, 
And came on that which is, and 
caught 

The deep pulsations of the world, 

iEonian music measuring out 
The steps of Time, the shocks of 

Chance, 
The blows of Death. At length my 
trance 
Was cancell'd, stricken thro' with 
doubt. 

Vague words ! but ah, how hard to 
frame 
In matter-moulded forms of speech, 
Or ev'n for intellect to reach 

Thro' memory that which I became : 

Till now the doubtful dusk reveal'd 
The knoll once more where, couch'd 

at ease, 
The white kine glimmer'd, and the 
trees 
Laid their dark arms about the field : 



194 



IN ME MORI AM. 



And, suck'd from out the distant 
gloom, 
A breeze began to tremble o'er 
The large leaves of the sycamore, 

And fluctuate all the still perfume, 

And gathering freshlier overhead, 
Rock'd the full-foliaged elms, and 

swung 
The heavy-folded rose, and flung 

The lilies to and fro, and said, 

"The dawn, the dawn," and died 
away ; 
And East and West, without a 

breath, 
Mixt their dim lights, like life and 
death, 
To broaden into boundless day. 



You say, but with no touch of scorn, 
Sweet-hearted, you, whose light-blue 

eyes 
Are tender over drowning flies, 

You tell me, doubt is Devil-born. 

I know not : one indeed I knew 
In many a subtle question versed, 
Who touch' d a jarring lyre at first, 

But ever strove to make it true : 

Perplext in faith, but pure in deeds, 
At last he beat his music out. 
There lives more faith in honest 
doubt, 

Believe me, than in half the creeds. 

He fought his doubts and gather'd 
strength, 
He would not make his judgment 

blind, 
He faced the spectres of the mind 
And laid them : thus he came at length 

To find a stronger faith his own ; 
And Power was with him in the 

night, 
Which makes the darkness and the 
light, 
And dwells not in the light alone, 

But in the darkness and the cloud, 
As over Sinai's peaks of old, 
While Israel made their gods of gold, 

Altho' the trumpet blew so loud. 



xcvi. 

My love has talk'd with rocks and 

trees ; 
He finds on misty mountain-ground 
His own vast shadow glory-crown'd ; 
He sees himself in all he sees. 

Two partners of a married life, — 
I look'd on these, and thought of 

thee 
In vastness and in mystery, 

And of my spirit as of a wife. 

These two — they dwelt with eye on 
eye, 
Their hearts of old have beat in time, 
Their meetings made December 
June, 
Their every parting was to die. 

Their love has never past away ; 
The days she never can forget 
Are earnest that he loves her yet, 

Whate'er the faithless pex>ple say. 

Her life is lone, he sits apart, 

He loves her yet, she will not weep, 
Tho' rapt in matters dark and deep 

He seems to slight her simple heart. 

He thrids the labyrinth of the mind, 
He reads the secret of the star, 
He seems so near and yet so far, 

He looks so cold : she thinks him kind. 

She keeps the gift of years before, 
A wither'd violet is her bliss ; 
She knows not what his greatness is ; 

For that, for all, she loves him more. 

For him she plays, to him she sings 
Of early faith and plighted vows ; 
She knows but matters of the house, 

And he, he knows a thousand things. 

Her faith is fixt and cannot move, 
She darkly feels him great and wise, 
She dwells on him with faithful eyes, 

" I cannot understand : I love." 



You leave us : you will see the Rhine, 
And those fair hills I sail'd below, 
When I was there with him ; and go 

By summer belts of wheat and vine 



IN MEMORIAM. 



195 



To where he breathed his latest breath, 
That City. All her splendor seems 
No livelier than the wisp that gleams 

On Lethe in the eyes of Death. 

Let her great Danube rolling fair 
Enwind her isles, unmark'd of me : 
I have not seen, I will not see 

Vienna; rather dream that there, 

A treble darkness, Evil haunts 

The birth, the bridal; friend from 

friend 
Is oftener parted, fathers bend 

Above more graves, a thousand wants 

Gnarr at the heels of men, and prey 
By each cold hearth, and sadness 

flings 
Her shadow on the blaze of kings : 

And yet myself have heard him say, 

That not in any mother town 

With statelier progress to and fro 
The double tides of chariots flow 

By park and suburb under brown 

Of lustier leaves ; nor more content, 
He told me, lives in any crowd, 
When all is gay with lamps, and loud 

With sport and song, in booth and tent, 

Imperial halls, or open plain ; 

And wheels the circled dance, and 
breaks 

The rocket molten into flakes 
Of crimson or in emerald rain. 



R isest thou thus, dim dawn, again, 
So loud with voices of the birds, 
So thick with lowings of the herds, 

Day, when I lost the flower of men ; 

Who tremblest thro' thy darkling red 
On yon swoll'n brook that bubbles 

fast 
By meadows breathing of the past, 

And woodlands holy to the dead ; 

Who murmurest in the foliaged eaves 
A song that slights the coming care, 
And Autumn laying here and there 

A fiery finger on the leaves ; 



Who wakenest with thy balmy breath, 
To myriads on the genial earth, 
Memories of bridal, or of birth, 

And unto myriads more, of death. 

O, wheresoever those may be, 
Betwixt the slumber of the poles, 
To-day they count as kindred souls ; 

They know me not, but mourn with me. 



I climb the hill : from end to end 
Of all the landscape underneath, 
I find no place that does not breathe 

Some gracious memory of my friend ; 

No gray old grange, or lonely fold, 
Or low morass and whispering reed, 
Or simple stile from mead to mead, 

Or sheepwalk up the windy wold ; 

Nor hoary knoll of ash and haw 
That hears the latest linnet trill, 
Nor quarry trench'd along the hill, 

And haunted by the wrangling daw ; 

Nor runlet tinkling from the rock ; 
Nor pastoral rivulet that swerves 
To left and right thro' meadowy 
curves, 

That feed the mothers of the flock ; 

But each has pleased a kindred eye, 
And each reflects a kindlier day ; 
And, leaving these, to pass away, 

I think once more he seems to die. 



Unwatch'd, the garden bough shall 
sway, 
The tender blossom flutter down, 
Unloved, that beech will gather 
brown, 
This maple burn itself away ; 

Unloved, the sun-flower, shining fair, 
Ray round with flames her disk of 

seed, 
And many a rose-carnation feed 

With summer spice the humming air ; 

Unloved, by many a sandy bar, 
The brook shall babble down the 

plain, 
At noon, or when the lesser wain 

Is twisting round the polar star ; 



196 



IN MEMORIAM. 



Uncared for, gird the windy grove, 
And flood the haunts of hern and 

crake ; 
Or into silver arrows break 

The sailing moon in creek and cove ; 

Till from the garden and the wild 

A fresh association blow, 

And year by year the landscape grow 
Familiar to the stranger's child ; 

As year by year the laborer tills 

His wonted glebe, or lops the glades ; 
And year by year our memory fades 

From all the circle of the hills. 



We leave the well-beloved place 
Where first we gazed upon the sky ; 
The roofs, that heard our earliest cry 

Will shelter one of stranger race. 

We go, but ere we go from home, 
As down the garden-walks I move, 
Two spirits of a diverse love 

Contend for loving masterdom. 

One whispers, here thy boyhood sung 
Long since its matin song, and heard 
The low love-language of the bird 

In native hazels tassel-hung. 

The other answers, " Yea, but here 
Thy feet have strayed in after hours 
With thy lost friend among the bow- 
ers, 

And this hath made them trebly dear." 

These two have striven half the day, 
And each prefers his separate claim, 
Poor rivals in a losing game, 

What will not yield each other way. 

I turn to go : my feet are set 

To leave the pleasant fields and 
farms ; 

They mix in one another's arms 
To one pure image of regret. 



On that last night before we went 
From out the doors where I was bred, 
I dream'd a vision of the dead, 

Which left my after-morn content. 



Methought I dwelt within a hall, 
And maidens with me : distant hills 
From hidden summits fed with rills 

A river sliding by the wall. 

The hall with harp and carol rang. 
They sang of what is wise and good 
And graceful. In the centre stood 

A statue veil'd, to which they sang ; 

And which, tho' veil'd, was known to 
me, 
The shape of him I loved, and love 
Forever : then flew in a dove 

And brought a summons from the sea : 

And when they learnt that I must go. 
They wept and wail'd, but led the 

way 
To where a little shallop lay 

•At anchor in the flood below ; 

And on by many a level mead, 
And shadowing bluff that made the 

banks, 
We glided winding under ranks 

Of iris, and the golden reed ; 

And still as vaster grew the shore, 
And roll'd the floods in grander 

space, 
The maidens gather'd strength and 
grace 
And presence, lordlier than before ; 

And I myself, who sat apart 

And watch'd them, wax'd in every 
limb ; 

I felt the thews of Anakim, 
The pulses of a Titan's heart ; 

As one would sing the death of war, 
And one would chant the history 
Of that great race, which is to be, 

And one the shaping of a star ; 

Until the forward-creeping tides 
Began to foam, and we to draw, 
From deep to deep, to where we saw 

A great ship lift her shining sides. 

The man we loved was there on deck, 
But thrice as large as man he bent 
To greet us. Up the side I went, 

And fell in silence on his neck : 



IN ME MORI AM. 



197 



Whereat those maidens with one mind 
Bewail' d their lot ; I did them wrong : 
" We served thee here," they said, 
"-so long, 

And wilt thou leave us now behind? " 

So rapt I was, they could not win 
An answer from my lips, but he 
Replying, " Enter likewise ye_ 

And go with us " : they enter'd in. 

And while the wind began to sweep 
A music out of sheet and shroud, 
We steer'd her toward a crimson 
cloud 

That landlike slept along the deep. 

cm. 
The time draws near the birth of 
Christ ; 
The moon is hid, the night is still ; 
A single church below the hill 
Is pealing, folded in the mist. 

A single peal of bells below, 

That wakens at this hour of rest 
A single murmur in the breast, 

That these are not the bells I know. 

Like strangers' voices here they sound, 
In lands where not a memory strays, 
Nor landmark breathes of other days, 

But all is new unhallow'd ground. 



This holly by the cottage-eave, 

To-night, ungather'd, shall it stand : 
We live within the stranger's land, 

And strangely falls our Christmas eve. 

Our father's dust is left alone 
And silent under other snows : 
There in due time the woodbine 
blows, 

The violet comes, but we are gone. 

No more shall wayward grief abuse 
The genial hour with mask and 

mime; 
For change of place, like growth of 
time, 
Has broke the bond of dying use. 

Let cares that petty shadows cast, 
By which our lives are chiefly proved, 
A little spare the night I loved, 

And hold it solemn to the past. 



But let no footstep beat the floor, 
Nor bowl of wassail mantle warm ; 
For who would keep an ancient form 

Thro' which the spirit breathes no 
more? 

Be neither song, nor game, nor feast ; 

Nor harp be touch'd, nor flute be 
blown ; 

No dance, no motion, save alone 
What lightens in the lucid east 

Of rising worlds by yonder wood. 

Long sleeps the summer in the seed ; 

Run out your measured arcs, and lead 
The closing cycle rich in good. 



Ring out wild bells to the wild sky, 
The flying cloud, the frosty light : 
The year is dying in the night ; 

Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. 

Ring out the old, ring in the new, 
Ring, happy bells, across the snow : 
The year is going, let him go ; 

Ring out the false, ring in the true. 

Ring out the grief that saps the mind, 
For those that here we see no more ; 
Ring out the feud of rich and poor, 

Ring in redress to all mankind. 

Ring out a slowly dying cause, 
And ancient forms of party strife ; 
Ring in the nobler modes of life, 

With sweeter manners, purer laws. 

Ring out the want, the care, the sin, 
The faithless coldness of the times ; 
Ring out, ring out my mournful 
rhymes, 

But ring the fuller minstrel in. 

Rjng out false pride in place and blood, 
The civic slander and the spite ; 
Ring in the love of truth and right, 

Ring in the common love of good. 

Ring out old shapes of foul disease ; 

Ring out the narrowing lust of gold ; 

Ring out the thousand wars of old, 
Ring in the thousand years of peace. 

Ring in the valiant man and free, 
The larger heart, the kindlier hand ; 
Ring out the darkness of the land, 

Ring in the Christ that is to be. 



igS 



IN ME MORI AM. 



It is the day when he was born, 
A bitter day that early sank 
Behind a purple-frosty bank 

Of vapor, leaving night forlorn. 

The time admits not flowers or leaves 
To deck the banquet. Fiercely flies 
The blast of North and East, and ice 

Makes daggers at the sharpen'd eaves, 

And bristles all the brakes and thorns 
To yon hard crescent, as she hangs 
Above the wood which grides and 
clangs 

Its leafless ribs and iron horns 

Together, in the drifts that pass 
To darken on the rolling brine 
That breaks the coast. But fetch 
the wine, 

Arrange the board and brim the glass ; 

Bring in great logs and let them lie, 
To make a solid core of heat ; 
Be cheerful-minded, talk and treat 

Of all things ev'n as he were by ; 

We keep the day. With festal cheer, 
With books and music, surely we 
Will drink to him whate'er he be, 

And sing the songs he loved to hear. 

CVII. 

I will not shut me from my kind, 
And, lest I stiffen into stone, 
I will not eat my heart alone, 

Nor feed with sighs a passing wind : 

What profit lies in barren faith, 

And vacant yearning, tho' with might 
To scale the heaven's highest height, 

Or dive below the wells of Death ? 

What find I in the highest place, 
But mine own phantom chanting 

hymns ? 
And on the depths of death there 
swims 
The reflex of a human face. 

I '11 rather take what fruit may be 
Of sorrow under human skies : 
'T is held that sorrow makes us wise, 

Whatever wisdom sleep with thee. 



Heart-affluence in discursive talk 
From household fountains never dry ; 
The critic clearness of an eye, 

That saw thro' all the Muses' walk ; 

Seraphic intellect and force 

To seize and throw the doubts of 
man; 

Impassion'd logic, which outran 
The hearer in its fiery course ; 

High nature amorous of the good, 
But touch'd with no ascetic gloom ; 
And passion pure in snowy bloom 

Thro' all the years of April blood ; 

A love of freedom rarely felt, 
Of freedom in her regal seat 
Of England ; not the school-boy heat, 

The blind hysterics of the Celt ; 

And manhood fused with female grace 
In such a sort, the chila would twine 
A trustful hand, .unask'd, in thine, 

And find his comfort in thy face ; 

All these have been, and thee mine eyes 
Have look'd on : if they look'd in vain, 
My shame is greater who remain, 

Nor let thy wisdom make me wise. 



Thy converse drew us with delight, 
The men of rathe and riper years : 
The feeble soul, a haunt of fears, 

Forgot his weakness in thy sight. 

On thee the loyal -hearted hung, 

The proud was half disarm' d of pride, 
Nor cared the serpent at thy side 

To flicker with his double tongue. 

The stern were mild when thou wert by, 
The flippant put himself to school 
And heard thee, and the brazen fool 

Was soften'd, and he knew not why ; 

While I, thy dearest, sat apart, 
And felt thy triumph was as mine ; 
And loved them more, that they were 
• thine, 

The graceful tact, the Christian art ; 

Not mine the sweetness or the skill 
But mine the love that will not tire, 
And, born of love, the vague desire 

That spurs an imitative will. 



IN ME MORI AM. 



199 



ex. 



The churl in spirit, up or down 
Along die scale of ranks, thro' all, 
To him who grasps a golden ball, 

By blood a king, at heart a clown ; 

The churl in spirit, howe'er he veil 
His want in forms for fashion's sake, 
Will let his coltish nature break 

At seasons thro' the gilded pale : 

For who can always act ? but he, 
To whom a thousand memories call, 
Not being less but more than all 

The gentleness he seem'd to be, 

Best seem'd the thing he was, and join'd 
Each office of the social hour 
To noble manners, as the flower 

And native growth of noble mind ; 

Nor ever narrowness or spite, 
Or villain fancy fleeting by, 
Drew in the expression of an eye, 

Where God and Nature met in light ; 

And thus he bore without abuse 
The grand old name of gentleman, 
Defamed by every charlatan, 

And soil'd with all ignoble use. 



High wisdom holds my wisdom less, 
That I, who gaze with temperate eyes 
On glorious insufficiencies, 

Set light by narrower perfectness. 

But thou, that fillest all the room 
Of all my love, art reason why 
I seem to cast a careless eye 

On souls, the lesser lords of doom. 

For what wert thou ? some novel power 
Sprang up forever at a touch, 
And hope could never hope too much, 

In watching thee from hour to hour, 

Large elements in order brought, 
And tracts of cal m from tempest made, 
And world-wide fluctuation sway'd 

In vassal tides that follow'd thought. 



'T is held that sorrow makes us wise ; 
Yethowmuch wisdom sleeps withthee 
Which not alone had guided me, 

But served the seasons that may rise ; 



For can I doubt who knew thee keen 
In intellect, with force and skill 
To strive, to fashion, to fulfil — 

I doubt not what thou wouldst have 
been : 

A life in civic action warm, 

A soul on highest mission sent, 
A potent voice of Parliament, 

A pillar steadfast in the storm, 

Should licensed boldness gather force, 
Becoming, when the time has birth, 
A lever to uplift the earth 

And roll it in another course, 

With thousand shocks that come and 

. S°» 
With agonies, with energies, 
With overthrowings, and with cries, 
And undulations to and fro. 

CXIII. 

Who loves not Knowledge? Who 
shall rail 
Against her beauty? May she mix 
With men andprosper ! Who shall fix 

Her pillars ? Let her work prevail. 

But on her forehead sits a fire : 
She sets her forward countenance 
And leaps into the future chance, 

Submitting all things to desire. 

Half-grown as yet, a child, and vain, 
She cannot fight the fear of death. 
What is she, cut from love and faith, 

But some wild Pallas from the brain 

Of Demons? fiery-hot to burst 
All barriers in her onward race 
For power. Let her know her place ; 

She is the second, not the first. 

A higher hand must make her mild, 
If all be not in vain ; and guide 
Her footsteps, moving side by side 

With wisdom, like the younger child : 

For she is earthly of the mind, 
But Wisdom heavenly of the soul. 
O friend, who earnest to thy goal 

So early, leaving me behind, 

I would the great world grew like thee, 
Who grewest not alone in power 
An4 knowledge, but by year and hour 

In reverence and in charity. 



IN MEMORIAM. 



CXIV. 

Now fades the last long streak of snow, 
Now bourgeons every maze of quick 
About the flowering squares, and t hi ck 

By ashen roots the violets blow. 

Now rings the woodland loud and long, 
The distance takes a lovelier hue, 
And drown'd in yonder living blue 

The lark becomes a sightless song. 

Now dance the lights on lawn and lea, 
The flocks are whiter down the vale, 
And milkier every milky sail 

On winding stream or distant sea ; 

Where now the seamew pipes, or dives 
In yonder greening gleam, and fly 
The happy birds, that change their 
sky 
To build and brood ; that live their 
lives 

From land to land ; and in my breast 
Spring wakens too ; and my regret 
Becomes an April violet, 

And buds and blossoms like the rest. 



Is it, then, regret for buried time 
That keenlier in sweet April wakes, 
And meets the year, and gives and 
takes 

The colors of the crescent prime ? 

Not all : the songs, the stirring air, 
The life re-orient out of dust, 
Cry thro' the sense to hearten trust 

In that which made the world so fair. 

Not all regret : the face will shine 
Upon me, while I muse alone ; 
And that dear voice I once have 
known 

Still speak to me of me and mine : 

Yet less of sorrow lives in me 

For days of happy commune dead ; 
Less yearning for the friendship fled, 

Than some strong bond which is to be. 

cxvi. 

O days and hours, your work is this, 
To hold me from my proper place, 
A little while from his embrace, 

For mller gain of after bliss ; 



That out of distance might ensue 
Desire of nearness doubly sweet ; 
And unto meeting when we meet, 

Delight a hundred-fold accrue, 

For every grain of sand that runs, 
And every span of shade that steals, 
And every kiss of toothed wheels, 

And all the courses of the suns. 



Contemplate all this work of Time, 
The giant laboring in his youth ; 
Nor dream of human love and truth, 

As dying Nature's earth and lime ; 

But trust that those we call the dead 
Are breathers of an ampler day, 
Forever nobler ends. They say, 

The solid earth whereon we tread 

In tracts of fluent heat uegan, 

And grew to seeming-random forms, 
The seeming prey of cyclic storms, 

Till at the last arose the man ; 

Who throve and branch' d from clime 
to clime, 
The herald of a higher race, 
And of himself in higher place 

If so he type this work of time 

Within himself, from more to more ; 
Or, crown' d with attributes of woe 
Like glories, move his course, and 
show 

That life is not as idle ore, 

But iron dug from central gloom, 
And heated hot with burning fears, 
And dipt in baths of hissing tears. 

And batter' d with the shocks of doom 

To shape and use. Arise and fly 
The reeling Faun, the sensual feast ; 
Move upward, working out the beast, 

And let the ape and tiger die. 



Doors, where my heart was used to 
beat 
So quickly, not as one that weeps 
I come once more ; the city sleeps; 

I smell the meadow in the street ; 



IN MEMORIAM. 



I hear a chirp of birds ; I see 

Betwixt the black fronts long-with- 
drawn 
A light-blue lane of early dawn, 

And think of early days and thee, 

And bless thee, for thy lips are bland, 
And bright the friendship of thine 

eye ; 
And in my thoughts with scarce a sigh 

I take the pressure of thine hand. 

CXIX. 

I trust I have not wasted breath : 
I think we are not wholly brain, 
Magnetic mockeries ; not in vain^ 

Like Paul with beasts, I fought with 
Death ; • 

Not only cunning casts in clay : 
Let Science prove we are, and then 
What matters Science unto men, 

At least to me ? I would not stay. 

Let him, the wiser man who springs 
Hereafter, up from childhood shape 
His action like the greater ape, 

But I was born to other things. 



Sad Hesper o'er the buried sun, 
And ready, thou, to die with him, 
Thou watchest all things ever dim 

And dimmer, and a glory done : 

The team is loosen'd from the wain, 
The boat is drawn upon the shore ; 
Thou listenest to the closing door, 

And life is darken'd in the brain. 

Bright Phosphor, fresher for the night, 
By thee the world's great work is 

heard 
Beginning, and the wakeful bird : 

Behind thee comes the greater light ; 

The market boat is on the stream, 
And voices hail it from the brink ; 
Thou hear'st the village hammer 
clink, 

And see'st the moving of the team. 

Sweet Hesper- Phosphor, double name 
For what is one, the first, the last, 
Thou, like my present and my past, 

Thy place is changed ; thou art the 
same. 



cxxi. 
O, wast thou with me, dearest, then, 
While I rose up against my doom, 
And yearn 'd to burst the folded 
gloom, 
To bare the eternal Heavens again, 

To feel once more, in placid awe, 
The strong imagination roll 
A sphere of stars about my soul, 

In all her motion one with law. 

If thou wert with me, and the grave 
Divide us not, be with me now, 
And enter in at breast and brow, 

Till all my blood, a fuller wave, 

Be quicken' d with a livelier breath, 
And like an inconsiderate boy, 
As in the former flash of joy, 

I slip the thoughts of life and death : 

And all the breeze of Fancy blows, 
And every dew-drop paints a bow, 
The wizard lightnings deeply glow, 

And every thought breaks out a rose. 

CXXI I. 

There rolls the deep where grew the 
tree. 
O earth, what changes thou hast seen! 
There where the long street roars, 
hath been 
The stillness of the central sea. 

The hills are shadows, and they flow 
From form to form, and nothing 

stands ; 
They melt like mist, the solid lands, 
Like clouds they shape themselves 
and go. 

But in my spirit will I dwell, 

And dream my dream, and hold it 
true ; 

For tho' my lips may breathe adieu, 
I cannot think the thing farewell. 

cxxin. 
That which we dare invoke to bless ; 
Our dearest faith ; our ghastliest 

doubt ; 
He, They, One, All ; within, with- 
out ; 
The Power in darkness whom we guess; 



IN ME MORI AM. 



I found Him not in world or sun, 
Or eagle's wing, or insect's eye ; 
Nor thro' the questions men may try, 

The petty cobwebs we have spun : 

If e'er, when faith had fall'n asleep, 
I heard a voice, " Believe no more," 
And heard an ever-breaking shore 

That tumbled in the Godless deep ; 

A warmth within the breast would melt 
The freezing reason's colder part, 
And like a man in wrath the heart 

Stood up and answer'd, " I have felt." 

No, like a child in doubt and fear : 
But that blind clamor made me wise ; 
Then was I as a child that cries, 

But, crying, knows his father neai ; 

And what I am beheld again 

What is, and no man understands ; 
And out of darkness came the hands 

That reach thro' nature, moulding men. 

cxxiv. 
Whatever I have said or sung, 

Some bitter notes my harp would 
give, 

Yea, tho' there often seem'd to live 
A contradiction on the tongue, 
Yet Hope had never lost her youth ; 

She did but look thro' dimmer eyes ; 

Or Love but play'd with gracious lies 
Because he felt so fix'd in truth : 

And if the song were full of care, 
He breathed the spirit of the song ; 
And if the words were sweet and 
strong, 

He set his royal signet there ; 

Abiding with me till I sail 
To seek thee on the mystic deeps, 
And this electric force, that keeps 

A thousand pulses dancing, fail. 

cxxv. 

Love is and was my Lord and King, 
'And in his presence I attend 
To hear the tidings of my friend, 

Which every hour his couriers bring. 

Love is and was my King and Lord, 
And will be, tho' as yet I keep 
Within his court on earth, and sleep 

Encompass' d by his faithful guard, 



And hear at times a sentinel 

Who moves about from place to place, 
And whispers to the worlds of space, 

In the deep night, that all is well. 

cxxvi. 

And all is well, tho' faith and form 
Be sunder'd in the night of fear ; 
Well roars the storm to those that 
hear 

A deeper voice across the storm, 

Proclaiming social truth shall spread, 
And justice, ev'n tho' thrice again 
The red fool-fury of the Seine 

Should pile her barricades with dead. 

But ill for him that wears a crown, 
Aiul him, the lazar, in his rags : 
They tremble, the sustaining crags j 

The spires of ice are toppled down, 

And molten up, and roar in flood ; 
The fortress crashes from on high, 
The brute earth lightens to the sky, 

And the great ^Eon sinks in blood, 

And compass'd by the fires of Hell ; 
While thou, dear spirit, happy star, 
O'erlook'st the tumult from afar, 

And smilest, knowing all is well. 

cxxv 1 1. 

The love that rose on stronger wings, 
Unpalsied when we met with Death, 
Is comrade of the lesser faith 

That sees the course of human things. 

No doubt vast eddies in the flood 
Of onward time shall yet be made, 
And throned races may degrade ; 

Yet, O ye mysteries of good, 

Wild Hours that fly with Hope and 
Fear, 
If all your office had to do 
With old results that look like new ; 

If this were all your mission here, 

To draw, to sheathe a useless sword, 
To fool the crowd with glorious lies, 
To cleave a creed in sects and cries, 

To change the bearing of a word, 

To shift an arbitrary power, 

To cramp the student at his desk, 
To make old bareness picturesque 

And tuft with grass a feudal tower ; 



IN ME MORI AM. 



203 



Why then my scorn might well descend 
On you and yours. I see in part 
That all, as in some piece of art, 

Is toil cooperant to an end. 

CXXVIII. 

Dear friend, far off, my lflst desire, 
So far, so near in woe and weal ; 

loved the most, when most I feel 
There is a lower and a higher ; 

Known and unknown ; human, divine ; 

Sweet human hand and lips and eye ; 

Dear heavenly friend that canst not 
die, 
Mine, mine, forever, ever mine ; 

Strange friend, past, present, and to be ; 

Love deeplier, darklier understood ; 

Behold, I dream a dream of good, 
And mingle all the world with thee. 

cxxix. 
Thy voice is on the rolling air ; 

1 hear thee where the waters run ; 
Thou standest in the rising sun, 

And in the setting thou art fair. 

What art thou then ? I cannot guess ; 
But tho' I seem in star and flower 
To feel thee some diffusive power, 

I do not therefore love thee less : 

My love involves the love before ; 

My love is vaster passion now ; 

Tho' mix'd with God and Nature 
thou, 
I seem to love thee more and more. 

Far off thou art, but ever nigh ; 

I have thee still, and I rejoice ; 

I prosper, circled with thy voice ; 
I shall not lose thee tho' I die. 

cxxx. 

O living will that shalt endure 

When all that seems shall suffer 

shock, 
Rise in the spiritual rock, 
Flow thro' our deeds and make them 
pure, 

That we may lift from out of dust 
A voice as unto him that hears, 
A cry above the conquer'd years 

To one that with us works, and trust, 



With faith that comes of self-control, 
The truths that never can be proved 
Until we close with all we loved, 

And all we flow from, soul in soul. 



O true and tried, so well and long, 
Demand not thou a marriage lay ; 
In that it is thy marriage day 

Is music more than any song. 

Nor have I felt so much of bliss 
Since first he told me that he loved 
A daughter of our house ; nor proved 

Since that dark day a day like this ; 

Tho' I since then have number'd o'er 
Some thrice three years : they went 

and came, 
Remade the blood and changed the 
frame, 
And yet is love not less, but more ; 

No longer caring to embalm 
In dying songs a dead regret, 
But like a statue solid-set, 

And moulded in colossal calm. 

Regret is dead, but love is more 

Than in the summers that are flown, 
For I myself with these have grown 

To something greater than before ; 

Which makes appear the songs I made 
As echoes out of weaker times, 
As half but idle brawling rhymes, 

The sport of random sun and shade. 

But where is she, the bridal flower, 
That must be made a wife ere noon ? 
She enters, glowing like the moon 

Of Eden on its bridal bower : 

On me she bends her blissful eyes, 
And then on thee ; they meet thy 

look 
And brighten like the star that shook 

Betwixt the palms of paradise. 

O when her life was yet in bud, 
He too foretold the perfect rose. 
For thee she grew, for thee she growt 

Forever, and as fair as good. 



204 



IN ME MORI AM. 



And thou art worthy ; full of power ; 
As gentle ; liberal-minded, great, 
Consistent ; wearing all that weight 

Of learning lightly like a flower. 

But now set out : the noon is near, 
And I must give away the bride ; 
She fears not, or with thee beside 

And me behind her, will not fear : 

For I that danced her on my knee, 
That watch'd her on her nurse's arm, 
That shielded all her life from harm, 

At last must part with her to thee ; 

Now waiting to be made a wife, 
Her feet, my darling, on the dead ; 
Their pensive tablets round her head, 

And the most living words of life 

Breathed in her ear. The ring is on, 
The "wilt thou," answer'd, and again 
The "wilt thou" ask'd, till out of 
twain 

Her sweet " I will " has made ye one. 

Now sign your names, which shall be 
read, 
Mute symbols of a joyful morn, 
By village eyes as yet unborn ; 

The names are sign'd, and overhead 

Begins the clash and clang that tells 
The joy to every wandering breeze ; 
The blind wall rocks, and on the trees 

The dead leaf trembles to the bells. 

O happy hour, and happier hours 
Await them. Many a merry face 
Salutes them — maidens of the place, 

That pelt us in the porch with flowers. 

O happy hour, behold the bride 

With him to whom her hand I gave. 
They leave the porch, they pass the 
grave 

That has to-day its sunny side. 

To-day the grave is bright for me, 
For them the light of life increased, 
Who stay to share the morning feast, 

Who rest to-night beside the sea. 

Let all my genial spirits advance 
To meet and greet a whiter sun ; 
My drooping memory will not shun 

The foaming grape of eastern France. 



It circles round, and fancy plays, 
And hearts are warm'd, and faces 

bloom, 
As drinking health to bride and 
groom 
We wish them store of happy days. 

Nor count me all to blame if I 
Conjecture of a stiller guest, 
Perchance, perchance, among the 
rest, 

And, tho' in silence, wishing joy. 

But they must go, the time draws on, 
And those white-favor'd horses wait ; 
They rise, but linger ; it is late ; 

Farewell, we kiss, and they are gone. 

A shade falls on us like the dark 
From little cloudlets on the grass, 
But sweeps away as out we pass 

To range the woods, to roam the park, 

Discussing how their courtship grew, 
And talk of others that are wed, 
And how she look'd, and what he 
said, 

And back we come at fall of dew. 

Again the feast, the speech, the glee, 
The shade of passing thought, the 

wealth 
Of words and wit, the double health, 
The crowning cup, the three-times- 
three, 

And last the dance ; — till I retire : 
Dumb is that tower which spake so 

loud, 
And high in heaven the streaming 
cloud, 
And on the downs a rising fire ; 

And rise, O moon, from yonder down, 
Till over down and over dale 
All night the shining vapor sail 

And pass the silent-lighted town, 

The white-faced halls, the glancing rills, 
And catch at every mountain head, 
And o'er the friths that branch and 
spread 

Their sleeping silver thro' the hills ; 

And touch with shade the bridal doors, 
With tender gloom the roof, the wall ; 
And breaking let the splendor fall 

Tjo spangle all the happy shores 



MAUD. 



205 



By which they rest, and ocean sounds, 
And, star and system rolling past, 
A soul shall draw from out the vast 

And strike his being into bounds, 

And, moved thro' life of lower phase, 
Result in man, be born and think, 
And act and love, a closer link 

Betwixt us and the crowning race 

Of those that, eye to eye, shall look 
On knowledge ; under whose com- 
mand 
Is Earth and Earth's, and in their 
hand 
Is Nature like an open book ; 



No longer half-akin to brute, 

For all we thought and loved and 

did, 
And hoped, and suffer'd, is but seed 

Of what in them is flower and fruit ; 

Whereof the man, that with me trod 
This planet, was a noble type 
Appearing ere the times were ripe, 

That friend of mine who lives in God, 

That God, which ever lives and loves, 
One God, one law, one element, 
And one far-off divine event, 

To which the whole creation moves. 



MAUD, AND OTHER POEMS. 



MAUD. 



I hate the dreadful hollow behind the little wood, 
Its lips in the field above are dabbled with blood-red heath, 
The red-ribb'd ledges drip with a silent horror of blood, 
And Echo there, whatever is ask'd her, answers " Death." 



For there in the ghastly pit long since a body was found, 
His who had given me life — O father ! O God ! was it well ? — 
Mangled, and flatten'd, and crush'd, and dinted into the ground : 
There yet lies the rock that fell with him when he fell. 



Did he fling himself down? who knows? for a vast speculation had fail'd, 
And ever he mutter'd and madden'd, and ever wann'd with despair, 
And out he walk'd when the wind like a broken worldling wail'd, 
And the flying gold of the ruin'd woodlands drove thro' the air. 



I remember the time, for the roots of my hair were stirr'd 
By a shuffled step, by a dead weight trail' d, by a whisper'd fright, 
And my pulses closed their gates with a shock on my heart as I heard 
The shrill-edged shriek of a mother divide the shuddering night. 



206 MA UD. 

5- 
Villany somewhere ! whose ? One says, we are villains all. 
Not he : his honest fame should at least by me be maintain'd : 
But that old man, now lord of the broad estate and the Hall, 
Dropt off gorged from a scheme that had left us flaccid and drain'd. 

6. 

Why do they prate of the blessings of Peace ? we have made them a curse, 

Pickpockets, each hand lusting for all that is not its own ; 

And lust of gain, in the spirit of Cain, is it better or worse 

Than the heart of the citizen hissing in war on his own hearthstone ? 

7- 
But these are the days of advance, the works of the men of mind. 
When who but a fool would have faith in a tradesman's ware or his word? 
Is it peace or war ? Civil war, as I think, and that of a kind 
The viler, as underhand, not openly bearing the sword. 

8. 
Sooner or later I too may passively take the print 
Of the golden age — why not ? I have neither hope nor trust ; 
May make my heart as a millstone, set my face as a flint, 
Cheat and be cheated, and die : who knows ? we are ashes and dust. 

9- 
Peace sitting under her olive, and slurring the days gone by, 
When the poor are hovell'd and hustled together, each sex, like swine, 
When only the ledger lives, and when only not all men lie ; 
Peace in her vineyard — yes ! — but a company forges the wine. 

io. 

And the vitriol madness flushes up in the ruffian's head, 
Till the filthy by-lane rings to the yell of the trampled wife, 
While chalk and alum and plaster are sold to the poor for bread, 
And the spirit of murder works in the very means of life. 

ii. 
And Sleep must lie down arm'd, for the villanous centre-bits 
Grind on the wakeful ear in the hush of the moonless nights, 
While another is cheating the sick of a few last gasps, as he sits 
To pestle a poison'd poison behind his crimson lights. 

12. 

When a Mammonite mother kills her babe for a burial fee, 
And Timour-Mammon grins on a pile of children's bones, 
Is it peace or war? better, war ! loud war by land and by sea, 
War with a thousand battles, and shaking a hundred thrones. 

1.3- 
For I trust if an enemy's fleet came yonder round by the hill, 
And the rushing battle-bolt sang from the three-decker out of the foam, 
That the smooth-faced snub-nosed rogue would leap from his counter and till 
And strike, if he could, were it but with his cheating yardwand, home. — 



MA UD. 207 

14. 
What ! am I raging alone as my father raged in his mood ? 
Must / too creep to the hollow and dash myself down and die 
Rather than hold by the law that I made, nevermore to brood 
On a horror of shatter' d limbs and a wretched swindler's lie ? 

i5- 
Would there be sorrow for me ? there was love in the passionate shriek, 
Love for the silent thing that had made false haste to the grave — 
Wrapt in a cloak, as I saw him, and thought he would rise and speak 
And rave at the lie and the liar, ah God, as he used to rave. 

16. 
I am sick of the Hall and the hill, I am sick of the moor and the main. 
Why should I stay ? can a sweeter chance ever come to me here ? 
O, having the nerves of motion as well as the nerves of pain, 
Were it not wise if I fled from the place and the pit and the fear ? 

There are workmen up at the Hall : they are coming back from abroad ; 
The dark old place will be gilt by the touch of a millionnaire : 
I have heard, I know not whence, of the singular beauty of Maud; 
I play'd with the girl when a child ; she promised then to be fair. 



Maud with her venturous climbings and tumbles and childish escapes, 
Maud the delight of the village, the ringing joy of the Hall, 
Maud with her sweet purse-mouth when my father dangled the grapes, 
Maud the beloved of my mother, the moon-faced darling of all, — 

19. 
What is she now? My dreams are bad. She may bring me a curse. 
No, there is fatter game on the moor ; she will let me alone. 
Thanks, for the fiend best knows whether woman or man be the worse. 
I will bury myself in my books, and the Devil may pipe to his own. 



II. 

Long have I sigh'd for a calm : God grant I may find it at last ! 

It will never be broken by Maud, she has neither savor nor salt, 

But a cold and clear-cut face, as I found when her carriage past, 

Perfectly beautiful : let it be granted her : where is the fault ? 

All that I saw (for her eyes were downcast, not to be seen) 

Faultily faultless, icily regular, splendidly null, 

Dead perfection, no more ; nothing more, if it had not been 

For a chance of travel, a paleness, an hour's defect of the rose, 

Or an underlip, you may call it a little too ripe, too full, 

Or the least little delicate aquiline curve in a sensitive nose, 

From which I escaped heart-free, with the least little touch of spleen. 



208 MA UD. 

III. 

Cold and clear-cut face, why come you so cruelly meek, 
Breaking a slumber in which all spleenful folly was drown'd, 
Pale with the golden beam of an eyelash dead on the cheek, 
Passionless, pale, cold face, star-sweet on a gloom profound ; 
Womanlike, taking revenge too deep for a transient wrong 
Done but in thought to your beauty, and ever as pale as before 
Growing and fading and growing upon me without a sound, 
Luminous, gemlike, ghostlike, deathlike, half the night long 
Growing and fading and growing, till I could bear it no more, 
But arose, and all by myself in my own dark garden ground, 
Listening now to the tide in its broad-flung shipwrecking roar, 
Now to the scream of a madden'd beach dragg'd down by the wave, 
Walk'd in a wintry wind by a ghastly glimmer, and found 
The shining daffodil dead, and Orion low in his grave. 



IV. 



A million emeralds break from the ruby-budded lime 
In the little grove where I sit — ah, wherefore cannot 1 be 
Like things of the season gay, like the bountiful season bland, 
When the far-off sail is blown by the breeze of a softer clime, 
Half-lost in the liquid azure bloom of a crescent of sea, 
The silent sapphire-spangled marriage ring of the land? 



Below me, there, is the village, and looks how quiet and small ! 
And yet bubbles o'er like a city, with gossip, scandal, and spite ; 
And Jack on his alehouse bench has as many lies as a Czar ; 
And here on the landward side, by a red rock, glimmers the Hall ; 
And up in the high Hall-garden I see her pass like a light ; 
But sorrow seize me if ever that light be my leading star ! 

3- 

When have I bow'd to her father, the wrinkled head of the race ? 
I met her to-day with her brother, but not to her brother I bow'd ; 
I bow'd to his lady-sister as she rode by on the moor ; 
But the fire of a foolish pride flash'd over her beautiful face. 

child, you wrong your beauty, believe it, in being so proud ; 
Your father has wealth well-gotten, and I am nameless and poor. 

4- 

1 keep but a man and a maid, ever ready to slander and steal ; 
I know it, and smile a hard-set smile, like a stoic, or like 

A wiser epicurean, and let the world have its way : 

For nature is one with rapine, a harm no preacher can heal ; 

The Mayfly is torn by the swallow, the sparrow spear'd by the shrike, 

And the whole little wood where I sit is a world of plunder and prey. 



MAUD. 



We are puppets, Man in his pride, and Beauty fair in her flower ; 
Do we move ourselves, or are moved by an unseen hand at a game 
That pushes us off from the board, and others ever succeed ? 
Ah yet, we cannot be kind to each other here for an hour ; 
We whisper, and hint, and chuckle, and grin at a brother's shame ; 
However we brave it out, we men are a little breed. 

6. 

A monstrous eft was of old the Lord and Master of Earth, 
For him did his high sun flame, and his river billowing ran, 
And he felt himself in his force to be Nature's crowning race. 
As nine months go to the shaping an infant ripe for his birth, 
So many a million of ages have gone to the making of man : 
He now is first, but is he the last ? is he not too base ? 



The man of science himself is fonder of glory, and vain, 
An eye well-practised in nature, a spirit bounded and poor ; 
The passionate heart of the poet is whirl'd into folly and vice. 
I would not marvel at either, but keep a temperate brain ; 
For not to desire or admire, if a man could learn it, were more 
Than to walk all day like the sultan of old in a garden of spice. 

8. 

For the drift of the Maker is dark, an Isis hid by the veil. 

Who knows the ways of the world, how God will bring them about? 

Our planet is one, the suns are many, the world is wide. 

Shall I weep if a Poland fall? shall I shriek if a Hungary fail? 

Or an infant civilization be ruled with rod or with knout ? 

I have not made the world, and He that made it will guide. 

9- 

Be mine a philosopher's life in the quiet woodland ways, 

Where if I cannot be gay let a passionless peace be my lot, 

Far-off from the clamor of liars belied in the hubbub of lies ; 

From the long-neck'd geese of the world that are ever hissing dispraise, 

Because their natures are little, and, whether he heed it or not, 

Where each man walks with his head in a cloud of poisonous flies. 



And most of all would I flee from the cruel madness of love, 
The honey of poison-flowers and all the measureless ill. 
Ah Maud, you milkwhite fawn, you are all unmeet for a wife. 
Your mother is mute in her grave as her image in marble above ; 
Your father is ever in London, you wander about at your will ; 
You have but fed on the roses, and lain in the lilies of life. 
14 



209 



MAUD. 



A voice by the cedar-tree, 

In the meadow under the Hall ! 

She is singing an air that is known to 

me, 
A passionate ballad gallant and gay, 
A martial song like a trumpet's call ! 
Singing alone in the morning of life, 
In the happy morning of life and of 

May, 
Singing of men that in battle array, 
Ready in heart and ready in hand, 
March with banner and bugle and fife 
To the death, for their native land. 



Maud with her exquisite face, 

And wild voice pealing up to the sunny 
sky, 

And feet like sunny gems on an Eng- 
lish green, 

Maud in the light of her youth and her 
grace, 

Singing of Death, and of Honor that 
cannot die, 

Till I well could weep for a time so 
sordid and mean, 

And myself so languid and base. 

3- 

Silence, beautiful voice ! 

Be still, for you only trouble the mind 

With a joy in which I cannot rejoice, 

A glory I shall not find. 

Still ! I will hear you no more, 

For your sweetness hardly leaves me a 

choice 
But to move to the meadow and fall 

before 
Her feet on the meadow grass, and 

adore, 
Not her, who is neither courtly nor 

kind, 
Not her, not her, but a voice. 



VI. 



Morning arises stormy and pale, 

No sun, but a wannish glare 

In fold upon fold of hueless cloud, 



And the budded peaks of the wood are 

bow'd 
Caught and cuff 'd by the gale : 
I had fancied it would be fair. 



Whom but Maud should I meet 
Last night, when the sunset burn'd 
On the blossom'd gable-ends 
At the head of the village street, 
Whom but Maud should I meet? 
And she touch' d my hand with a smile 

so sweet 
She made me divine amends 
For a courtesy not retum'd. 

3- 

And thus a delicate spark 
Of glowing and growing light 
Thro' the livelong hours of the dark 
Kept itself warm in the heart of my 

dreams, 
Ready to burst in a color'd flame ; 
Till at last, when the morning came 
In a cloud, it faded, and seems 
But an ashen -gray delight. 



What if with her sunny hair, 

And smile as sunny as cold, 

She meant to weave me a snare 

Of some coquettish deceit, 

Cleopatra-like as of old 

To entangle me when we met, 

To have her lion roll in a silken net 

And fawn at a victor's feet. 



Ah, what shall I be at fifty 

Should Nature keep me aiive, 

If I find the world so bitter 

When I am but twenty-five ? 

Yet, if she were not a cheat, 

If Maud were all that she seem'd, 

And her smile were all that I dream'd, 

Then the world were not so bitter 

But a smile could make it sweet. 

6. 

What if tho' her eye seem'd full 
Of a kind intent to me, 
What if that dandy-despot, he, 
That jewell'd mass of millinery, 
That oil'd and curl'd Assyrian Bull 



MAUD. 



Smelling of musk and of insolence, 
Her brother, from whom I keep aloof, 
Who wants the finer politic sense 
To mask, tho' but in his own behoof, 
With a glassy smile his brutal scorn, — 
What if he had told her yestermom 
How prettily for his own sweet sake 
A face of tenderness^ might be feign'd, 
And a moist mirage in desert eyes, 
That so, when the rotten hustings shake 
In another month to his brazen lies, 
A wretched vote may be gain'd. 



For a raven ever croaks, at my side, 
Keep watch and ward, keep watch and 

ward, 
Or thou wilt prove their tool. 
Yea too, myself from myself I guard, 
For often a man's own angry pride 
Is cap and bells for a fool. 



Perhaps the smile and tender tone 
Came out of her pitying womanhood, 
For am I not, am I not, here alone 
So many a summer since she died, 
My mother, who was so gentle and 

good? # 
Living alone in an empty house, 
Here half-hid in the gleaming wood, 
Where I hear the dead at midday moan, 
And the shrieking rush of the wainscot 

mouse, 
And my own sad name in corners cried, 
When the shiver of dancing leaves is 

thrown 
About its echoing chambers wide, 
Till a morbid hate and horror have 

grown 
Of a world in which I have hardly mixt, 
And a morbid eating lichen fixt 
On a heart half-turn' d to stone. 

9- 

O heart of stone, are you flesh, and 

caught 
By that you swore to withstand ? 
For what was it else within me wrought 
But, I fear, the new strong wine of love, 
That made my tongue so stammer and 

trip 
When I saw the treasured splendor, 

her hand, 



Come sliding out of her sacred glove, 
And the sunlight broke from her lip ; 



I have play'd with her when a child ; 

She remembers it now we meet. 

Ah well, well, well, I may be beguiled 

By some coquettish deceit. 

Yet, if she were not a cheat, 

If Maud were all that she seem'd, 

And her smile had all" that I dream'd, 

Then the world were not so bitter 

But a smile could make it sweet. 

VII. 



Did I hear it half in a doze 
Long since, I know not where ? 

Did I dream it an hour ago, 
When asleep in this arm-chair ? 

2. 

Men were drinking together, 
Drinking and talking of me ; 

" Well, if it prove a girl, the boy 
Will have plenty : so let it be." 

3 ' 
Is it an echo of something 

Read with a boy's delight, 
Viziers nodding together 

In some Arabian night ? 

4- 
Strange, that I hear two men, 

Somewhere, talking of me ; 
" Well, if it prove a girl, my boy 

Will have plenty : so let it be." 

VIII. 

She came to the village church, 
And sat by a pillar alone ; 
An angel watching an urn 
Wept over her, carved in stone ; 
And once, but once, she lifted her eyes, 
And suddenly, sweetly, strangely 

blush'd 
To find they were met by my own ; 
And suddenly, sweetly, my heart beat 

stronger 
And thicker, until I heard no longer 
The snowy-banded, dilettante, 
Delicate-handed priest intone ; 



MA UD. 



And thought, is it pride, and mused 

and sigh'd 
" No surely, now it cannot be pride." 



IX. 

I was walking a mile, 
More than a mile from the shore, 
The sun look'd out with a smile 
Betwixt the cloud and the moor, 
And riding at set of day 
Over the dark moor land, 
Rapidly riding far away, 
She waved to me with her hand. 
There were two at her side, 
Something flash'd in the sun, 
Down by the hill I saw them ride, 
In a moment they were gone : 
Like a sudden spark 
Struck vainly in the night, 
And back returns the dark 
With no more hope of light. 



Sick, am I sick of a jealous dread? 
Was rmt one of the two at her side 
This new-made lord, whose splendor 

plucks 
The slavish hat from the villager's 

head? 
Whose old grandfather has lately died, 
Gone to a blacker pit, for whom 
Grimy nakedness dragging his trucks 
And laying his trams in a poison'd 

gloom 
Wrought, till he crept from a gutted 

mine 
Master of half a servile shire, 
And left his coal all turn'd into gold 
To a grandson, first of his noble line, 
Rich in the grace all women desire, 
Strong in the power that all men adore, 
And simper and set their voices lower, 
And soften as if to a girl, and hold 
Awe-stricken breaths at a work di- 
vine, 
Seeing his gewgaw castle shine, 
New as his title, built last year, < 
There amid perky larches and pine, 
And over the sullen-purple moor 
(Look at it) pricking a cockney ear. 



What, has he found my jewel out ? 
For one of the two that rode at her side 
Bound for the Hall, I am sure was 

he: 
Bound for the Hall, and I think for a 

bride. 
Blithe would her brother's acceptance 

be. 
Maud could be gracious too, no doubt, 
To a lord, a captain, a padded shape, 
A bought commission, a waxen face, 
A rabbit mouth that is ever agape — 
Bought? what is it he cannot buy? 
And therefore splenetic, personal, base, 
A wounded thing with a rancorous cry, 
At war with myself and a wretched 

race, 
Sick, sick to the heart of life, am I. 



Last week came one to the county town, 
To preach our poor little army down, 
And play the game of the despot kings, 
Tho' the state has done it and thrice 

as well : _ 
This broad-brim'd hawker of holy 

things, 
Whose ear is stuff 'd with his cotton, 

and rings 
Even in dreams to the chink of his 

pence, 
This huckster put down war ! can he 

tell 
Whether war be a cause or a conse- 
quence ? 
Put down the passions that make earth 

Hell! 
Down with ambition, avarice, pride, 
Jealousy, down ! cut off from the mind 
The bitter springs of anger and fear ; 
Down too, down at your own fireside, 
With the evil tongue and the evil ear, 
For each is at war with mankind. 



I wish I could hear again 

The chivalrous battle-song 

That she warbled alone in her joy ! 

I 'might persuade myself then 

She would not do herself this great 

wrong 
To take a wanton, dissolute boy 
For a man and leader of men. 



MAUD. 



Ah God, for a man with heart, head, 

hand, 
Like some of the simple great ones gone 
For ever and ever by, 
One still strong man in a blatant land, 
Whatever they call him, what care I, 
Aristocrat, democrat, autocrat, — one 
Who can rule and dare not lie. 

6. 
And ah for a man to arise in me, 
That the man I am may cease to be ! 



XL 



let the solid ground 
Not fail beneath my feet 

Before my life has found 

What some have found so sweet ; 
Then let come what come may, 
What matter if I go mad, 

1 shall have had my day. 

2. 

Let the sweet heavens endure, 
Not close and darken above me 

Before I am quite quite sure 
That there is one to love me ; 

Then let come what come may 

To a life that has been so sad, 

I shall have had my day. 

XII. 



Birds in the high Hall-garden 
When twilight was falling, 

Maud, Maud, Maud, Maud, 
They were crying and calling. 

2. 

Where was Maud? in our wood ; 

And I, who else, was with her, 
Gathering woodland lilies, 

Myriads blow together. 



Birds in our wood sang 
Ringing thro' the valleys, 

Maud is here, here, hera 
In among the lilies. 



I kiss'd her slender hand, 
She took the kiss sedately ; 

Maud is not seventeen, 
But she is tall and stately. 

5- 
I to cry out on pride 
Who have won her favor ! 

Maud were sure of Heaven 
If lowliness could save her. 

6. 

1 know the way she went 
Home with her maiden posy, 

Forherfeet have touch'dthemeadows 
And left the daisies rosy. 

7- 

Birds in the high Hall-garden 
Were crying and calling to her, 

Where is Maud, Maud, Maud, 
One is come to woo her. 

8. 
Look, a horse at the door, 

And little King Charles is snarling, 
Go back, my lord, across the moor, 

You are not her darling. 

XIII. 



Scorn'd, to be scorn'd by one that I 

scorn, 
Is that a matter to make me fret ? 
That a calamity hard to be borne? 
Well, he may live to hate me yet. 
Fool that I am to be vext with his 

pride ! 
I past him, I was crossing his lands ; 
He stood on the path a little aside ; 
His face, as I grant, in spite of spite, 
Has a broad-blown comeliness, red and 

white, 
And six feet two, as I think, he stands ; 
But his essences turn'd the live air sick, 
And barbarous opulence jewel-thick 
Sunn'd itself on his breast and his 

hands. 

2. 

Who shall call me ungentle, unfair, 
I long'd so heartily then and thei-e 
To give him the grasp of fellowship ; 



214 



MAUD. 



But while I past he was humming an 

air, 
Stopt, and then with a riding whip 
Leisurely tapping a glossy boot, 
And curving a contumelious lip, 
Gorgonized me from head to foot 
With a stony British stare. 

3- 
Why sits he here in his father's chair? 
That old man never comes to his place : 
Shall I believe him ashamed to be seen ? 
For only once, in the village street, 
Last year, I caught a glimpse of his 

face, 
A gray old wolf and a lean. 
Scarcely, now, would I call him a cheat; 
For then, perhaps, as a child of deceit, 
She might by a true descent be un- 
true ; 
And Maud is as true as Maud is sweet ; 
Tho' I fancy her sweetness only due 
To the sweeter blood by the other side ; 
Her mother has been a thing complete, 
However she came to be so allied. 
And fair without, faithful within, 
Maud to him is nothing akin : 
Some peculiar mystic grace 
Made her only the child of her mother, 
And heap'd the whole inherited sin 
On that huge scapegoat of the race, 
All, all upon the brother. 



Peace, angry spirit, and let him be ! 
Has not his sister smiled on me ? 



XIV. 



Maud has a garden of roses 
And lilies fair on a lawn ; 
There she walks in her state 
And tends upon bed and bower 
And thither I climb'd at dawn 
And stood by her garden gate ; 
A lion ramps at the top, 
He is claspt by a passion-flower. 

2. 
Maud's own little oak-room 
(Which Maud, like a precious stone 
Set in the heart of the carven gloom, 
Lights with herself, when alone 



She sits by her music and books, 
And her brother lingers late 
With a roistering company) looks 
Upon Maud's own garden gate : 
And I thought as I stood, if a hand, as 

white 
As ocean-foam in the moon, were laid 
On the hasp of the window, and my 

Delight 
Had a sudden desire, like a glorious 

ghost, to glide, 
Like a beam of the seventh Heaven, 

down to my side, 
There were but a step to be made. 

3- 
The fancy flatter'd my mind, 
And again seem'd overbold ; 
Now I thought that she cared for 

me, 
Now I thought she was kind 
Only because she was cold. 



I heard no sound where I stood 
But the rivulet on from the lawn 
Running down to my own dark wood ; 
Or the voice of the long sea-wave as it 

swell'd 
Now and then in the dim-gray dawn ; 
But I look'd, and round, all round the 

house I beheld 
The death-white curtain drawn ; 
Felt a horror over me creep, 
Prickle my skin and catch my breath, 
Knew that the death-white curtain 

meant but sleep, 
Yet I shudder' d and thought like a fool 

of the sleep of death. 

XV. 

So dark a mind within me dwells, 
And I make myself such evil cheer, 

That if I be dear to some one else, 
Then some one else may have much 
to fear ; 

But if I be dear to some one else, 
Then I should be to myself more dear. 

Shall I not take care of all that I 
think, 

Yea ev'n of wretched meat and drink, 

If I be dear, 

If I be dear to some one else ? 



MAUD. 



215 



XVI. 



This lump of earth has left his estate 
The lighter by the loss of his weight ; 
And so that he find what he went to 

seek, 
And fulsome Pleasure clog him, and 

drown 
His heart in the gross mud-honey of 

town, 
He may stay for a year who has gone 

for a week : 
But this is the day when I must speak, 
And I see my Oread coming down, 
O this is the day ! 

beautiful creature, what am I 
That I dare to look her way ; 
Think I may hold dominion sweet, 
Lord of the pulse that is lord of her 

breast, 
And dream of her beauty with tender 

dread, 
From the delicate Arab arch of her 

feet 
To the grace that, bright and light as 

the crest > 
Of a peacock, sits on her shining head, 
And she knows it not : O, if she knew 

it, 
To know her beauty might half undo it. 

1 know it the one bright thing to save 
My yet young life in the wilds of Time, 
Perhaps from madness, perhaps from 

crime, 
Perhaps from a selfish grave. 



What, if she be fasten'd to this fool 

lord, 
Dare I bid her abide by her word? 
Should I love her so well if she 
Had given her word to a thing so low ? 
Shall I love her as well if she 
Can break her word were it even for me ? 
I trust that it is not so. 



Catch not my breath, O clamorous 

heart, 
Let not my tongue be a thrall to my eye, 
For I must tell her before we part, 
I must tell her, or die. 



XVII. 

Go not, happy day, 

From the shining fields, 
Go not, happy day, _ 

Till the maiden yields. 
Rosy is the West, 

Rosy is the South, 
Roses are her cheeks, 

And a rose her mputh. 
When the happy Yes 

Falters from her lips, 
Pass and blush the news 

O'er the blowing ships. 
Over blowing seas, 

Over seas at rest, 
Pass the happy news, 

Blush it thro' the West , 
Till the red man dance 

By his red cedar-tree, 
And the red man's babe 

Leap, beyond the sea. 
Blush from West to East, 

Blush from East to West, 
Till the West is East, 

Blush it thro' the West. 
Rosy is the West, 

Rosy is the South, 
Roses are her cheeks, 

And a rose her mouth. 



XVIII. 



I have led her home, my love, my only 
friend. 

There is none like her, none. 

And never yet so warmly ran my blood 

And sweetly, on and on 

Calming itself to the long- wish' d-for 
end, 

Full to the banks, close on the prom- 
ised good. 



None like her, none. 

Just now the dry-tongued laurels' pat- 
tering talk 

Seem'd her light foot along the garden 
walk, 

And shook my heart to think she comes 
once more ; 



2l6 



MAUD. 



But even then I heard her close the door, 
The gates of Heaven are closed, and 
she is gone. 



There is none like her, none. 

Nor will be when our summers have 

deceased. 
O, art thou sighing for Lebanon 
In the long^ breeze that streams to thy 

delicious East, 
Sighing for Lebanon, 
Dark cedar, tho' thy limbs have here 

increased, 
Upon a pastoral slope as fair, 
And looking to the Southland fed 
With honey'd rain and delicate air, 
And haunted by the starry head 
Of her whose gentle will has changed 

my fate, 
And made my life a perfumed altar- 
flame; 
.And over whom thy darkness must 

have spread 
With such delight as theirs of old, thy 

great 
Forefathers of the thornless garden, 

there 
Shadowing the snow-limb' d Eve from 

whom she came. 

4- 
Here will I lie, while these long 

branches sway, 
And you fair stars that crown a happy 

day 
Go in and out as if at merry play, 
Who am no more so all forlorn, 
As when it seem'd far better to be born 
To labor and the mattock-harden'd 

hand, 
Than nursed at ease and brought to 

understand 
A sad astrology, the boundless plan 
That makes you tyrants in your iron 

skies, 
Innumerable, pitiless, passionless eyes, 
Cold fires, yet with power to burn and 

brand 
His nothingness into man. 

5- 
But now shine on, and what care I, 
Who in this stormy gulf have found a 
pearl 



The countercharm of space and hollow 

sky, 
And do accept my madness, and would 

die 
To save from some slight shame one 

simple girl. 

- 6. 

Would die ; for sullen- seeming Death 

may give 
More life to Love than is or ever was 
In our low world, where yet 't is sweet 

to live. 
Let no one ask me how it came to pass ; 
It seems that I am happy, that to me 
A livelier emerald twinkles in the grass, 
A purer sapphire melts into the sea. 



Not die ; but live a life of truest breath, 
And teach true life to fight with mortal 

wrongs. 
O, why should Love, like men in 

drinking-songs, 
Spice his fair banquet with the dust of 

death ? 
Make answer, Maud my bliss, 
Maud made my Maud by that long 

lover's kiss, 
Life of my life, wilt thou not answer 

this? 
" The dusky strand of Death inwoven 

here 
With dear Love's tie, makes Love 

himself more dear." 



Is that enchanted moan only the swell 

Of the long waves that roll in yonder 
bay? 

Anc^hark the clock within, the silver 
knell 

Of twelve sweet hours that past in bri- 
dal white, 

And died to live, long as my pulses 
play ; 

But now by this my love has closed her 
sight 

And given false death her hand, and 
stol'n away 

To dreamful wastes where footless fan- 
cies dwell 

Among the fragments of the golden 
day. 



MAUD. 



217 



May nothing there her maiden grace 

affright ! 
Dear heart, I feel with thee the drowsy 

spell. 
My bride to be, my evermore delight, 
My own heart's heart and ownest own 

farewell ; 
It is but for a little space I go 
And ye meanwhile far over moor and 

fell 
Beat to the noiseless music of the night ! 
Has our whole earth gone nearer to the 

glow 
Of your soft splendors that you look so 

bright ? 
/ have climb'd nearer out of lonely 

Hell. 
Beat, happy stars, timing with things 

below, 
Beat with my heart more blest than 

heart can tell, 
Blest, but for some dark undercurrent 

woe 
That seems to draw — but it shall not 

be so: 
Let all be well, be well. 



XIX. 



Her brother is coming back to-night, 
Breaking up my dream of delight. 



My dream? do I dream of bliss? 
I have walk'd awake with Truth. 

when did a morning shine 
So rich in atonement as this 
For my dark-dawning youth, 
Darken'd watching a mother decline 
And that dead man at her heart and 

mine : 
For who was left to watch her but I ? 
Yet so did I let my freshness die. 

3- 

1 trust that I did not talk 
To gentle Maud in our walk 
(For often in lonely wanderings 

I have cursed him even to lifeless 

things) 
But I trust that I did not talk, 
Not touch on her father's sin : 



I am sure I did but speak 
Of my mother's faded cheek 
When it slowly grew so thin, 
That I felt she was slowly dying 
Vext With lawyers and harass" d with 

debt : 
For how often I caught her with eyes 

all wet, 
Shaking her head at her son and sighing 
A world of trouble within ! 

4- 
And Maud too, Maud was moved 
To speak of the mother she loved 
As one scarce less forlorn, 
Dying abroad and it seems apart 
From him who had ceased to share her 

heart, 
And ever mourning over the feud, 
The household Fury sprinkled with 

blood 
By which our houses are torn : 
How strange was what she said, 
When only Maud and the brother 
Hung over her dying bed, — 
That Maud's dark father and mine 
Had bound us one to the other, 
Betrothed us over their wine, 
On the day when Maud was born ; 
Seal'd her mine from her first sweet 

breath. 
Mine, mine by a right, from birth till 

death, 
Mine, mine — our fathers have sworn. 

5- 

But the true blood spilt had in it a heat 
To dissolve the precious seal on a bond, 
That, if left uncancell'd, had been so 

sweet : 
And none of us thought of a something 

beyond, 
A desire that awoke in the heart of the 

child, 
As it were a duty done to the tomb, 
To be friends for her sake, to be recon- 
ciled ; 
And I was cursing them and my doom, 
And letting a dangerous thought run 

wild 
While often abroad in the fragrant 

gloom 
Of foreign churches, — I see her there, 
Bright English lily, breathing a prayer 
To be friends, to be reconciled 1 



218 



MAUD. 



But then what a flint is he ! 
Abroad, at Florence, at Rome, 
I find whenever she touch'd on me 
This brother had laugh'd her down, 
And at last, when each came home, 
He had darken'd into a frown, 
Chid her, and forbid her to speak 
To me, her friend of the years before ; 
And this was what had redden'd her 

cheek, 
When I bow'd to her on the moor. 

7- 
Yet Maud, altho' not blind 
To the faults of his heart and mind, 
I see she cannot but love him, 
And says he is rough but kind, 
And wishes me to approve him, 
And tells me, when she lay 
Sick once, with a fear of worse, 
That he left his wine and horses and 

play, 
Sat with her, read to her, night and 

day, 
And tended her like a nurse. 



Kind ? but the death-bed desire 
Spurn'd by this heir of the liar — 
Rough but kind? yet I know 
He has plotted against me in this, 
That he plots against me still. 
Kind to Maud? that were not amiss. 
Well, rough but kind ; why, let it be 

so : 
For shall not Maud have her will ? 



For, Maud, so tender and true, 
As long as my life endures 
I feel 1 shall owe you a debt, 
That I never can hope to pay ; 
And if ever I should forget 
That I owe this debt to you 
And for your sweet sake to yours ; 
O then, what then shall I say? — 
If ever I should forget, 
May God make me more wretched 
Than ever I have been yet ! 



So now I have sworn to bury 
All this dead body of hate, 
I feel so free and so clear 



By the loss of that dead weight, 
That I should grow light-headed, I fear, 
Fantastically merry ; 
But that her brother comes, like a 

blight 
On my fresh hope, to the Hall to-night. 

XX. 

i. 

Strange, that I felt so gay, 
Strange, that I tried to-day 
To beguile her melancholy ; 
The Sultan, as we name him, — 
She did not wish to blame him — 
But he vext her and perplext her 
With his worldly talk and folly : 
Was it gentle to reprove her 
For stealing out of view 
From a little lazy lover 
Who but claims her as his due ? 
Or for chilling his caresses 
By the coldness of her manners, 
Nay, the plainness of her dresses ? 
Now I know her but in two, 
Nor can pronounce upon it 
If one should ask me whether 
The habit, hat, and feather, 
Or the frock and gypsy bonnet 
Be the neater and completer ; 
For nothing can be sweeter 
Than maiden Maud in either. 



But to-morrow, if we live, 
Our ponderous squire will give 
A grand political dinner 
To half the squirelings near ; 
And Maud will wear her jewels, 
And the bird of prey will hover, 
And the titmouse hope to win her 
With his chirrup at her ear. 

3- 
A grand. political dinner 
To the men of many acres, 
A gathering* of the Tory, 
A dinner and then a dance 
For the maids and marriage-makers, 
And every eye but mine will glance 
At Maud in all her glory. 

4- 
For I am not invited, 
But, with the Sultan's pardon, 



MAUD. 



219 



I am all as well delighted, 
For I know her own rose-garden, 
And mean to linger in it 
Till the dancing will be over ; 
And then, O then, come out to me 
For a minute, but for a minute, 
Come out to your own true lover, 
That your true lover may see 
Your glory also, and render 
All homage to his own darling, 
Queen Maud in all her splendor. 

XXI. 

Rivulet crossing my ground, 

And bringing me down from the Hall 

This garden-rose that I found, 

Forgetful of Maud and me, 

And lost in trouble and moving round 

Here at the head of a tinkling fall, 

And trying to pass to the sea ; 

O Rivulet, born at the Hall, 

My Maud has sent it by thee 

(If I read her sweet will right) 

On a blushing mission to me, 

Saying in odor and color, " Ah, be 

Among the roses to-night." 



XXII. 

Come into the garden, Maud, 

For the black bat, night, has flown, 

Come into the garden, Maud, 
I am here at the gate alone ; 

And the woodbine spices are wafted 
abroad, 
And the musk of the roses blown. 



For a breeze of morning moves, 

And the planet of Love is on high, 
Beginning to faint in the light that she 
loves 
On a bed of daffodil sky, 
To faint in the light of the sun she 
loves, 
To faint in his light, and to die. 

3- 
All night have the roses heard 

The flute, violin, bassoon ; 
All" night has the casement jessamine 
stirr'd 



To the dancers dancing in tune ; 

Till a silence fell with the waking bird, 

And a hush with the setting moon. 

. 4- 

I said to the lily, " There is but one 

With whom she has heart to be gay. 
When will the dancers leave her alone ? 

She is weary of dance and play." 
Now half to the setting moon are gone, 

And half to the rising day ; 
Low on the sand and loud on the stone 

The last wheel echoes away. 

5- 
I said to the rose, " The brief night 
goes 
In babble and revel and wine. 

young lord-lover, what sighs are 

those, 

1 For one that will never be thine ? 
But mine, but mine," so I sware to the 

rose, 
" For ever and ever, mine." 

6. 

And the soul of the rose went into my 

blood, 

As the music clash'd in the hall ; 

And long by the garden lake I stood, 

For I heard your rivulet fall 
From the lake to the meadow and on 
to the wood, 
Our wood, that is dearer than all ; 

7- 

From the meadow your walks have left 
so sweet 
That whenever a March-wind sighs 
He sets the jewel-print of your feet 

In violets blue as your eyes, 
To the woody hollows in which we 
meet 
And the valleys of Paradise. 

8. 
The slender acacia would not shake 
One long milk-bloom on the tree ' 
The white lake-blossom fell into the 
lake, 
As the pimpernel dozed on the lea ; 
But the rose was awake all night for 
your sake, 
Knowing your promise to me ; 
The lilies and roses were all awake, 
They sigh'd for the dawn and thee. 



MAUD. 



9- 

Queen rose of the rosebud garden of 

girls, 

Come hither, the dances are done, 

In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls, 

Queen lily and rose in one ; 
Shine out, little head, sunning over 
with curls, 
To the flowers, and be their sun. 



There has fallen a splendid tear 

From the passion-flower at the gate. 
She is coming, my doye, my dear ; 

She is coming, my life, my fate ; 
The red rose cries, " She is near, she 
is near" ; 

And the white rose weeps, " She is 
late " ; 
The larkspur listens, " I hear, I hear" ; 

And the lily whispers, " I wait." 



She is coming, my own, my sweet ; 

Were it ever so airy a tread, 
My heart would hear her and beat, 

Were it earth in an earthy bed ; 
My dust would hear her and beat, 

Had I lain for a century dead ; 
Would start and tremble under her feet, 

And blossom in purple and red. 



XXIII. 



" The fault was mine, the fault was 

mine " — 
Why am I sitting here so stunn'd and 

still, 
Plucking the harmless wild-flower on 

the hill? — 
It is this guilty hand ! — 
And there rises ever a passionate cry 
From underneath in the darkening 

land — 
What is it, that has been done ? 
O dawn of Eden bright over earth and 

sky, 
The fires of Hell brake out of thy ris- 
ing sun, 
The fires of Hell and of Hate ; 
For she, sweet soul, had hardly spoken 

a word, 



When her brother ran in his rage to the 

gate, 
He came with the babe-faced lord ; 
Heap'd on her terms of disgrace, 
And while she wept, and I strove to be 

cool, 
He fiercely gave me the lie, 
Till I with as fierce an anger spoke, 
And he struck me, madman, over the 

face, 
Struck me before the languid fool, 
Who was gaping and grinning by : 
Struck for himself an evil stroke : 
Wrought for his house an irredeemable 

woe ; 
For front to front in an hour we stood, 
And a million horrible bellowing ech- 
oes broke 
From the red-ribb'd hollow behind the 

wood, 
And thunder'd up into Heaven the 

Christless code, 
That must have life for a blow. 
Ever and ever afresh they seem'd to 

grow. 
Was it he lay there with a fading 

eye? 
"The fault was mine," he whisper'd, 

"fly!" 
Then glided out of the joyous wood 
The ghastly Wraith of one that I 

know ; 
And there rang on a sudden a passion- 
ate cry, 
A cry for a brother's blood : 
It will ring in my heart and my ears, 
till I die, till I die. 



Is it gone? my pulses beat — 

What was it ? a lying trick of the brain ? 

Yet I thought I saw her stand, 

A shadow there at my feet, 

High over the shadowy land. 

It is gone ; and the heavens fall in a 

gentle rain, 
When they should burst and drown 

with deluging storms 
The feeble vassals of wine and anger 

and lust, 
The little hearts that know not how to 

forgive : 
Arise, my God, and strike, for we hold 

Thee just, 



MAUD. 



Strike dead the whole weak race of 

venomous worms, 
That sting each other here in the dust ; 
We are not worthy to live. 



XXIV. 



See what a lovely shell, 
Small and pure as a pearl, 
Lying close to my foot, 
Frail, but a work divine, 
Made so fairily well 
With delicate spire and whorl, 
How exquisitely minute, 
A miracle of design ! 

2. 

What is it ? a learned man 
Could give it a clumsy name. 
Let him name it who can, 
The beauty would be the same. 

3- 

The tiny cell is forlorn, 
Void of the little living will 
That made it stir on the shore. 
Did he stand at the diamond door 
Of his house in a rainbow frill ? 
Did he push, when he was uncurl'd, 
A golden foot or a fairy horn 
Thro' his dim water- world ? 



Slight, to be crush'd with a tap 
Of my finger-nail on the sand, 
Small, but a work divine, 
Frail, but of force to withstand, 
Year upon year, the shock 
Of cataract seas that snap 
The three-decker's oaken spine 
Athwart the ledges of rock, 
Here on the Breton strand 1 

5- 
Breton, not Briton ; here 
Like a shipwreck'd man on a coast 
Of ancient fable and fear, — 
Plagued with a flitting to and fro, 
A disease, a hard mechanic ghost 
That never came from on high 
Nor ever arose from below, 
But only moves with the moving eye, 
Flying along the land and the main, — 



Why should it look like Maud ? 
Am I to be overawed 
By what I cannot but know 
Is a juggle bora of the brain? 

6. 
Back from the Breton coast, 
Sick of a nameless fear, 
Back to the dark sea-line 
Looking, thinking of all I have lost ; 
An old song vexes my ear ; 
But that of Lamech is mine. 



For years, a measureless ill, 
For years, forever, to part, — _ 
But she, she would love me still ; 
And as long, O God, as she 
Have a grain of love for me, 
So long, no doubt, no doubt, 
Shall I nurse in my dark heart, 
However weary, a spark of will 
Not to be trampled out. 



Strange, that the mind, when fraught 
With a passion so intense 
One would think that it well 
Might drown all life in the eye, — 
That it should, by being so over- 
wrought, 
Suddenly strike on a sharper sense 
For a shell, or a flower, little things 
Which else would hav»been past by ! 
And now I remember, I, 
When he lay dying there, 
I noticed one of his many rings 
(For he had many, poor worm) and 

thought 
It is his mother's hair. 



Who knows if he be dead ? 

Whether I need have fled ? 

Am I guilty of blood ? 

However this may be, 

Comfort her, comfort her, all things 

good, 
While I am over the sea ! 
Let me and my passionate love go by, 
But speak to her all things holy and 

high, 
Whatever happen to me ! 
Me and my harmful love go by ; 
But come to her waking, find her asleep, 



MAUD. 



Powers of the height, Powers of the 

deep, 
And comfort her tho' I die. 



XXV. 

Courage, poor heart of stone ! 

I will not ask thee why 

Thou canst not understand 

That thou art left forever alone : 

Courage, poor stupid heart of stone. — 

Or if I ask thee why, 

Care not thou to reply : 

She is but dead, and the time is at hand 

When thou shalt more than die. 



XXVI. 
I. 

O that 't were possible 
After long grief and pain 
To find the arms of my true love 
Round me once again ! 

2. 

When I was wont to meet her 
In the silent woody places 
By the home that gave me birth, 
We stood tranced in long embraces 
Mixt with kisses sweeter sweeter 
Than anything on earth. 

3- 

A shadow flits before me, 

Not thou, but like to thee ; _ 

Ah Christ, that it were possible 

For one short hour to see 

The souls we loved, that they might 

tell us 
What and where they be. 



It leads me forth at evening, 

It lightly winds and steals 

In a cold white robe before me, 

When all my spirit reels 

At the shouts, the leagues of lights, 

And the roaring of the wheels. 

5- 
Half the night I waste in sighs, 
Half in dreams I sorrow after 
The delight of early skies ; 
In a wakeful doze I sorrow 



For the hand, the lips, the eyes, 
For the meeting of the morrow, 
The delight of happy laughter, 
The delight of low replies. 

6. 
'T is a morning pure and sweet, 
And a dewy splendor falls 
On the litde flower that clings 
To the turrets and the walls ; 
'T is a morning pure and sweet, 
And the light and shadow fleet ; 
She is walking in the meadow, 
And the woodland echo rings ; 
In a moment we shall meet ; 
She is singing in the meadow, 
And the rivulet at her feet 
Ripples on in light and shadow 
To the ballad that she sings. 

7- 

Do I hear her sing as of old, 
My bird with the shining head, 
My own dove with the tender eye? 
But there rings on a sudden a passion- 
ate cry, 
There is some one dying or dead, 
And a sullen thunder is roll'd ; 
For a tumult shakes the city, 
And I wake, my dream is fled ; 
In the shuddering dawn, behold, 
Without knowledge, without pity, 
By the curtains of my bed 
That abiding phantom cold. 

8. 
Get thee hence, nor come again, 
Mix not memory with doubt, 
Pass, thou deathlike type of pain, 
Pass and cease to move about, 
'T is the blot upon the brain 
That will show itself without. 



Then I rise, the eavedrops fall, 
And the yellow vapors choke 
The great city sounding wide ; 
The day comes, a dull red ball 
Wrapt m drifts of lurid smoke 
On the misty river-tide. 

io. 
Thro' the hubbub of the market 
I steal, a wasted frame, 
It crosses here, it crosses there, 
Thro' all that crowd confused and loud, 



MAUD. 



223 



The shadow still the same ; 
And on my heavy eyelids 
My anguish hangs like shame. 

11. 

Alas for her that met me, 

That heard me softly call, 

Came glimmering thro' the laurels 

At the quiet evenfall, 

In the garden by the turrets 

Of the old manorial hall. 



Would the happy spirit descend, 
From the realms of light and song, 
In the chamber or the street, 
As she looks among the blest, 
Should I fear to greet my friend 
Or to say "forgive the wrong," 
Or to ask her, "take me, sweet, 
To the regions of thy rest? " 

13- 
But the broad light glares and beats, 
And the shadow flits and fleets 
And will not let me be ; 
And I loathe the squares and streets, 
And the faces that one meets, 
Hearts with no love for me : 
Always I long to creep 
Into some still cavern deep, 
There to weep, and weep, and weep 
My whole soul out to thee. 



XXVII. 

I. 
Dead, long dead, 
Long dead ! 

And my heart is a handful of dust, 
And the wheels go over my head, _ 
And my bones are shaken with pain, 
For into a shallow grave they are 

thrust, 
Only a yard beneath the street, 
And the hoofs of the horses beat, beat, 
The hoofs of the horses beat, 
Beat into my scalp and my brain, 
With never an end to the stream of 

passing feet, 
Driving, hurrying, marrying, burying, 
Clamor and rumble, and ringing and 

clatter, 
And here beneath it is all as bad, 



For I thought the dead had peace, but 

it is not so ; 
To have no peace in the grave, is that 

not sad? 
But up and down and to and fro, 
Ever about me the dead men go ; 
And then to hear a dead man chatter 
Is enough to drive one mad. 



Wretchedest age, since Time began, 

They cannot even bury a man ; 

And tho' we paid our tithes in the days 

that are gone, 
Not a bell was rung, not a prayer was 

read ; 
It is that which makes us loud in the 

world of the dead ; 
There is none that does his work, not 

one ; 
A touch of their office might have suf» 

ficed, 
But the churchmen fain would kill 

their church, 
As the churches have kill'd their 

Christ. 



See, there is one of us sobbing, 

No limit to his distress ; 

And another, a lord of all things, pray- 
ing 

To his own great self, as I guess ; 

And another, a statesman there, be- 
traying 

His party-secret, fool, to the press ; 

And yonder a vile physician, blabbing 

The case of his patient, — all for what? 

To tickle the maggot born in an empty 
head, 

And wheedle a world that loves him 
not, 

For it is but a world of the dead. 



Nothing but idiot gabble ! 

For the prophecy given of old 

And then not understood, 

Has come to pass as foretold ; 

Not let any man think for the public 

good, 
But babble, merely for babble. 
For I never whisper'd a private affair 
Within the hearing of cat or mouse, 



224 



MAUD. 



No, not to myself in the closet alone, 
But I heard it shouted at once from 

the top of the house ; 
Everything came to be known : 
Who told him. we were there ? 



Not that gray old wolf, for he came not 

back 
From the wilderness, full of wolves, 

where he used to lie ; 
He has gather'd the bones for his o'er- 

grown whelp to crack ; 
Crack them now for yourself, and howl, 

and die. 



Prophet, curse me the blabbing lip, 
And curse me the British vermin, the 

rat; 
I know not whether he came in the 

Hanover ship, 
But I know that he lies and listens 

mute 
In an ancient mansion's crannies and 

holes : 
Arsenic, arsenic, sure, would do it, 
Except that now we poison our babes, 

poor souls ! 
It is all used up for that. 

7- 

Tell him now : she is standing here at 

my head ; 
Not beautiful now, not even kind ; 
He may take her now ; for she never 

speaks her mind, 
But is ever the one thing silent here. 
She is not of us, as I divine ; 
She comes from another stiller world 

of the dead, 
Stiller, not fairer than mine. 



But I know where a garden grows, 
Fairer than aught in the world beside, 
All made up of the lily and rose 
That blow by night, when the season 

is good, 
To the sound of dancing music and 

flutes : 
It is only flowers, they had no fruits, 
And I almost fear they are not roses, 

but blood ; 



For the keeper was one, so full of pride, 

He linkt a dead man there to a spec- 
tral bride ; 

For he, if he had not been a Sultan of 
brutes, 

Would he have that hole in his side? 



But what will the old man say ? 

He laid a cruel snare in a pit 

To catch a friend of mine one stormy 

day ; 
Yet now I could even weep to think 

of it ; 
For what will the old man say 
When he comes to the second corpse 

in the pit ? 

10. 

Friend, to be struck by the public foe, 
Then to strike him and lay him low, 
That were a public merit, far, 
Whatever the Quaker holds, from sin ; 
But the red. life spilt for a private 

blow — 
I swear to you, lawful and lawless war 
Are scarcely even akin. 

me, why have they not buried me 

deep enough ? 
Is it kind to have made me a grave so 

rough, 
Me, that was never a quiet sleeper? 
Maybe still I am but half-dead ; 
Then I cannot be wholly dumb ; 

1 will cry to the steps above my head, 
And somebody, surely, some kind heart 

will come 
To bury me, bury me 
Deeper, ever so little deeper. 

XXVIII. 



My life has crept so long on a broken 
wing 

Thro' cells of madness, haunts of hor- 
ror and fear, 

That I come to be grateful at last for a 
little thing : 

My mood is changed, for it fell at a 
time of year 

When the face of night is fair on the 
dewy downs, 



MAUD. 



225 



And the shining daffodil dies, and the 

Charioteer 
And starry Gemini hang like glorious 

crowns 
Over Orion's grave low down in the 

west, 
That like a silent lightning under the 

stars 
She seem'd to divide in a dream from 

a band of the blest, 
And spoke of a hope for the world in 

the coming wars — 
"And in that hope, dear soul, let 

trouble have rest, 
Knowing I tarry for thee," and pointed 

to Mars 
As he glow'd like a ruddy shield on the 

Lion's breast. 



And it was but a dream, yet it yielded 

a dear delight 
To have look'd, tho' but in a dream, 

upon eyes so fair, 
That had been in a weary world my 

one thing bright ; 
And it was but a dream, yet it light- 

en'd my despair 
When I thought that a war would arise 

in defence of the right, 
That an iron tyranny now should bend 

or cease, 
The glory of manhood stand on his 

ancient height, 
Nor Britain's one sole God be the 

millionnaire : 
No more shall commerce be all in all, 

and Peace 
Pipe on her pastoral hillock a languid 

note, 
And watch her harvest ripen, her herd 

increase, 
Nor the cannon-bullet rust on a sloth- 
ful shore, 
And the cobweb woven across the can- 
non's throat 
Shall shake its threaded tears in the 

wind no more. 



And as months ran on and rumor of 

battle grew, 
" It is time, it is time, O passionate 
Jieart," said I 

15 



(For I cleaved to a cause that I felt to 

be pure and true), 
* It is time, O passionate heart and 

morbid eye, 
That old hysterical mock -disease 

should die." 
And I stood on a giant deck and mix'd 

my breath 
With a loyal people shouting a battle 

cry, 
Till I saw the dreary phantom arise 

and fly 
Far into the North, and battle, and 

seas of death. 



Let it go or stay, so I wake to the 

higher aims 
Of a land that has lost for a little her 

lust of gold, 
And love of a peace that was full of 

wrongs and shames, 
Horrible, hateful, monstrous, not to be 

told; 
And hail once more to the banner of 

battle unroll'd ! 
Tho' many a light shall darken, and 

many shall weep 
For those that are crush'd in the clash 

of jarring claims, 
Yet God's just wrath shall be wreak'd 

on a giant liar ; 
And many a darkness into the light 

shall leap, 
And shine in the sudden making of 

splendid names, 
And noble thought be freer under the 

sun, 
And the heart of a people beat with 

one desire ; 
For the peace, that I deem'd no peace, 

is over and done, 
And now by the side of the Black and 

the Baltic deep, 
And deathful-grinning mouths of the 

fortress, flames 
The blood-red blossom of war with a 

heart of fire. 



Let it flame or fade, and the war roll 

down like a wind, 
We have proved we have hearts in a 

cause, we are noble still, 



226 



THE BROOK. 



And myself have awaked, as it seems, 

to the better mind; 
It is better to fight for the good, than 

to rail at the ill ; 
I have felt with my native land, I am 

. one with my kind, 
I embrace the purpose of God, and the 

doom assign'd. 



THE BROOK; 

AN IDYL. 

" Here, by this brook, we parted ; I 

to the East 
And he for Italy — too late — too late : 
One whom the strong sons of the world 

despise ; 
For lucky rhymes to him were scrip 

and share, 
And mellow metres more than cent for 

cent ; 
Nor could he understand how money 

breeds, 
Thought it a dead thing ; yet himself 

could make 
The thing that is not as the thing 

that is. 

had he lived ! In our school-books 

we say, 
Of those that held their heads above 

the crowd, 
They flourish' d then or then ; but life 

in him 
Could scarce be said to flourish, only 

touch'd 
On such a time as goes before the leaf, 
When all the wood stands in a mist of 

green, 
And nothing perfect : yet the brook he 

loved, 
For which, in branding summers of 

Bengal, 
Or ev'n the sweet half- English Neil- 

gherry air, 

1 panted, seems, as I re-listen to it, 
Prattling the primrose fancies of the 

boy, 
To me that loved him ; for ' O brook,' 

he says, 
*0 babbling brook,' says Edmund in 

his rhyme, 
1 Whence come you ? ' and the brook, 

why not ? replies. 



I come from haunts of coot and hern, 

I make a sudden sally 
And sparkle out among the fern, 

To bicker down a valley. 

By thirty hills I hurry down, 
Or slip between the ridges, 

By twenty thorps, a little town, 
And half a hundred bridges. 

Till last by Philip's farm I flow 
To join the brimming river, 

For men may come and men may go, 
But I go on forever. 

" Poor lad, he died at Florence, 
quite worn out, 

Travelling to Naples. There is Darn- 
ley bridge, 

It has more ivy ; there the river ; and 
there % 

Stands Philip's farm where brook and 
river meet. 

I chatter over stony ways, 

In little sharps and trebles, 
I bubble into eddying bays, 

I babble on the pebbles. 
With many a curve my banks I fret 

By many a field and fallow, 
And many a fairy foreland set 

With willow-weed and mallow. 
I chatter, chatter, as I flow 

To join the brimming river, 
For men may come and men may go, 

But I go on forever. 

" But Philip chatter'd more than 
brook or bird ; 

Old Philip ; all abftut the fields you 
caught 

His weary daylong chirping, like the 
dry 

High-elbow'd grigs that leap in sum- 
mer grass. 

I wind about, and in and out, 
With here a blossom sailing, 

And here and there a lusty'trout, 
And here and there a grayling, 

And here and there a foamy flake 

Upon me, as I travel 
With many a silvery waterbreak 

Above the golden gravel, 



THE BROOK. 



227 



And draw them all along, and flow 
To join the brimming river, 

For men may come and men may go, 4 
But I go on forever. 

"O darling Katie Willows, his one 

child ! 
A maiden of our century, yet most 

meek ; 
A daughter of our meadows, yet not 

coarse ; 
Straight, but as lissome as a hazel 

wand ; 
Her eyes a bashful azure, and her 

hair 
In gloss and hue the chestnut, when 

the shell 
Divides threefold to show the fruit 

within. 

" Sweet Katie, once I did her a good 
turn, 

Her and her far-off cousin and be- 
trothed, 

James Willows, of one name and heart 
with her. 

For here I came, twenty years back, — 
the week 

Before I parted with poor Edmund ; 
crost 

By that old bridge which, half in ruins 
then, 

Still makes a hoary eyebrow for the 
gleam 

Beyond it, where the waters marry — 
crost, 

Whistling a random bar of Bonny 
Doon, 

And push'd at Philip's garden-gate. 
The gate, 

Half-parted from a weak and scolding 
hinge, 

Stuck; and he clamor' d from a case- 
ment, ' run ' 

To Katie somewhere in the walks be- 
low, 

' Run, Katie ! ' Katie never ran : she 
moved 

To meet me, winding under woodbine 
bowers, 

A little flutter'd, with her eyelids 
down, 

Fresh apple-blossom, blushing for a 
boon. 



"What was it? less of sentiment 
than sense ^ 

Had Katie ; not illiterate ; neither one 

Who dabbling in the fount of fictive 
tears, 

And nursed by mealy -mouth'd philan- 
thropies, 

Divorce the Feeling from her mate the 
Deed. 

" She told me. She and James had 
quarrell'd. Why? 

What cause of quarrel? None, she 
said, no cause ; 

James had no cause : but when I prest 
the cause, 

I learnt that James had flickering jeal- 
ousies 

Which anger'd her. Who anger'd 
James? I said. 

But Katie snatch' d her eyes at once 
from mine, 

And sketching with her slender pointed 
foot 

Some figure like a wizard's pentagram 

On garden gravel, let my query pass 

Unclaim'd, in flushing silence, till I 
ask'd 

If James were coming. ' Coming ev- 
ery day,' 

She answer'd, ' ever longing to explain, 

But evermore her father came across 

With some long-winded tale, and broke 
him short ; 

And James departed vext with him 
and her.' 

How could I help her ? ' Would I — 
was it wrong ? ' 

(Claspt hands and that petitionary 
grace 

Of sweet seventeen subdued me ere 
she spoke) 

1 O would I take her father for one hour, 

For one half-hour, and let him talk to 
me ! ' 

And even while she spoke, I saw where 
James 

Made toward us, like a wader in the 
surf, 

Beyond the brook, waist-deep in mead- 
ow-sweet. 

"O Katie, what I suffer'd for your 
sake ! 
For in I went, and call'd old Philip out 



228 



THE BROOK. 



To show the farm : full willingly he 

rose : 
He led me thro' the short sweet-smell- 
ing lanes 
Of his wheat suburb, babbling as he 

went. 
He praised his land, his horses, his 

machines ; 
He praised his ploughs, his cows, his 

hogs, his dogs ; 
He praised his hens, his geese, his 

guinea-hens ; 
His pigeons, who in session on their 

roofs 
Approved him, bowing at their own 

deserts : 
Then from the plaintive mother's teat 

he took 
Her blind and shuddering puppies, 

naming each, 
And naming those, his friends, for 

whom they were : 
Then crost the common into Darnley 

chase 
To show Sir Arthur's deer. In copse 

and fern 
Twinkled the innumerable ear and 

tail. 
Then, seated on a serpent-rooted 

beech, 
He pointed out a pasturing colt, and 

said : 
'That was the four-year-old I sold the 

Squire.' 
And there he told a long, long-winded 

tale 
Of how the Squire had seen the colt at 

grass, 
And how it was the thing his daughter 

wish'd, 
And how he sent the bailiff to the farm 
To learn the price, and what the price 

he ask'd, 
And how the bailiff swore that he was 

mad, 
But he stood firm ; and so the matter 

hung ; 
He gave them line : and five days after 

that 
He met the bailiff at the Golden Fleece, 
Who then and there had offer'd some- 
thing more, 
But he stood firm ; and so the matter 

hung ; 



He knew the man ; the colt would fetch 

its price ; 
•He gave them line : and how by chance 

_ at last 
(It might be May or April, he forgot, 
The last of April or the first of May) 
He found the bailiff riding by the farm, 
And, talking from the point, he drew 

him in, 
And there he mellow'd all his heart 

with ale, 
Until they closed a bargain, hand in 

hand. 

"Then, while I breathed in sight of 
haven, he, 

Poor fellow, could he help it ? recom- 
menced, • 

And ran thro' all the coltish chronicle, 

Wild Will, Black Bess, Tantivy, Tal- 
lyho, 

Reform, White Rose, Bellerophon, the 
Jilt, 

Arbaces, and Phenomenon, and the 
rest, 

Till, not to die a listener, I arose, 

And with me Philip, talking still ; and 
so 

We turn'd our foreheads from the fall- 
ing sun, 

And following our own shadows thrice 
as long 

As when they follow'd us from Philip's 
door, 

Arrived, and found the sun of sweet 
content 

Re-risen in Katie's eyes, and all things 
well. 



I steal by lawns and grassy plots, 
I slide by hazel covers ; 

I move the sweet forget-me-nots 
That grow for happy lovers* 

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, 
Among my skimming swallows ; 

I make the netted sunbeam dance 
Against my sandy shallows. 

I murmur under moon and stars 
In brambly wildernesses ; 

I linger by my shingly bars ; 
I loiter round my cresses ; 



THE LETTERS. 



229 



And out again I curve and flow 
To join the brimming river, 

For men may come and men may go, 
But I 'go on forever. 

Yes, men may come and go ; and these 

are gone, 
All gone. My dearest brother, Ed- 
mund, sleeps, 
Not by the well-known stream and 

rustic spire, 
But unfamiliar Arno, and the dome 
Of Brunclleschi ; sleeps in peace : and 

he, 
Poor Philip, of all his lavish waste of 

words 
Remains the lean P. W. on his tomb : 
I scraped the lichen from it : Katie 

walks 
By the long wash of Australasian seas 
Far off, and holds her head to other 

stars, 
And breathes in converse seasons. All 

are gone." 

So Lawrence Aylmer, seated on a 

stile 
In the long hedge, and rolling in his 

mind 
Old waifs of rhyme, and bowing o'er 

the brook 
A tonsured head in middle age for- 
lorn, 
Mused, and was mute. On a sudden 

a low breath 
Of tender air made tremble in the 

hedge 
The fragile bindweed-bells and briony 

rings ; 
And he look'd up. There stood a 

maiden near, 
Waiting to pass. In much amaze he 

stared 
On eyes a bashful azure, and on hair 
In gloss and hue the chestnut, when 

the shell 
Divides threefold to show the fruit 

within : 
Then, wondering, ask'd her, " Are you 

from the farm?" 
"Yes," answer'd she. "Pray stay a 

little : pardon me ; 
What do they call you?" "Katie." 

11 That were strange. 



What surname?" "Willows." "No!" 

" That is my name." 
" Indeed ! " and here he look'd so self- 

perplext, 
That Katie laugh'd, and laughing 

blush'd, till he 
Laugh'd also, but as one before he 

wakes, 
Who feels a glimmering strangeness in 

his dream. 
Then looking at her; "Too happy, 

fresh and fair, 
Too fresh and fair in our sad world's 

best bloom, 
To be the ghost of one who bore your 

name 
About these meadows, twenty years 

ago." 

" Have you not heard ? " said Katie, 
" we came back. 

We bought the farm we tenanted be- 
fore. 

Am I so like her? so they said on 
board. 

Sir, if you knew her in her English 
days, 

My mother, as it seems you did, the 
days 

That most she loves to talk of, come 
with me. 

My brother James is in the harvest- 
field: 

But she — you will be welcome — O, 
come in ! " 



THE LETTERS. 

1. 

Still on the tower stood the vane, 

A black yew gloom'd the stagnant air, 
I peer'd athwart the chancel pane 

And saw the altar cold and bare. 
A clog of lead was round my feet, 

A band of pain across my brow ; 
"Cold altar, Heaven and earth shall 
meet 

Before you hear my marriage vow." 

2. 

I turn'd and humm'd a bitter song 
That mock'd the wholesome humMi 
heart, 



230 



ODE ON THE DEATH OF WELLINGTON. 



And then we -met in wrath and wrong, 
We met, but only meant to part. 

Full cold my greeting was and dry ; 
She faintly smiled, she hardly moved; 

I saw with half-unconscious eye 
She wore the colors I approved. 



She took the little ivory chest, 

With half a sigh she turn'd the key, 
Then raised her head with lips com- 
prest, 

And gave my letters back to me. 
And gave the trinkets and the rings, 

My gifts, when gifts of mine could 
please ; 
As looks a father on the things 

Of his dead son, I look'd on these. 



She told me all her friends had said ; 

I raged against the public liar ; 
She talk'd as if her love were dead, 

But in my words were seeds of Are. 
" No more of love ; your sex is known : 

I never will be twice deceived. 
Henceforth I trust the man alone, 

The woman cannot be believed. 



" Thro' slander, meanest spawn of 
Hell 

(And women's slander is the worst), 
And you, whom once I lov'd so well, 

Thro' you, my life will be accurst." 
I spoke with heart, and heat and force, 

I shook her breast with vague 
alarms — 
Like torrents from a mountain source 

We rush'd into each other's arms. 

6. 

We parted : sweetly gleam'd the stars, 

And sweet the vapor-braided blue, 
Low breezes fann'd the belfry bars, 

As homeward by the church I drew. 
The very graves appear'd to smile, 

So fresh they rose in shadow'd swells ; 
" Dark porch," I said, " and silent aisle 

There comes a sound of marriage 
bells." 



ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE 
DUKE OF WELLINGTON. 



Bury the Great Duke 

With an empire's lamentation, 
Let us bury the Great Duke 

To the noise of the mourning of a 
mighty nation, 
Mourning when their leaders fall, 
Warriors carry the warrior's pall, 
And sorrow darkens hamlet and hall. 



Where shall we lay the man whom we 

deplore ? 
Here, in streaming London's central 

roar. 
Let the sound of those he wrought for, 
And the feet of those he fought for, 
Echo round his bones forevermore. 

3- 
Lead out the pageant : sad and slow, 
As fits an universal woe, 
Let the long long procession go, 
And let the sorrowing crowd about it 

grow, 
And let the mournful martial music 

blow; 
The last great Englishman is low. 



Mourn, for to us he seems the last, 
Remembering all his greatness in the 

Past. 
No more in soldier fashion will he greet 
With lifted hand the gazer in the street. 
O friends, our chief state-oracle is 

mute : 
Mourn for the man of long-enduring 

blood, 
The statesman-warrior, moderate, res- 
olute. 
Whole in himself, a common good. 
Mourn for the man of amplest influence, 
Yet clearest of ambitious crime, 
Our greatest yet with least pretence, 
Great in council and great in war, 
Foremost captain of his time, 
Rich in saving common-sense, 
And, as the greatest only are, 
In his simplicity sublime. 
O good gray head which all men knew, 



ODE ON THE DEATH OF WELLINGTON. 



231 



O voice from which their omens all 

men drew, 
O iron nerve to true occasion true, 
O fall'n at length that tower of strength 
Which stood four-square to all the 

winds that blew ! 
Such was he whom we deplore. 
The long self-sacrifice of life is o'er. 
The great World-victor's victor will be 

seen no more. 

5- 

All is over and done : 

Render thanks to the Giver, 

England, for thy. son. 

Let the bell be toll'd. 

Render thanks to the Giver, 

And render him to the mould. 

Under the cross of gold 

That shines over city and river, 

There he shall rest forever 

Among the wise and the bold. 

Let the bell be toll'd : 

And a reverent people behold 

The towering car, the sable steeds : 

Bright let it be with his blazon'd deeds, 

Dark in its funeral fold. 

Let the bell be toll'd :^ 

And a deeper knell in the heart be 

knoll'd ; 
And the sound of the sorrowing an- 
them roll'd 
Thro' the dome of the golden cross ; 
And the volleying cannon thunder his 

loss ; 
He knew their voices of old. 
For many a time in many a clime 
His captain's-ear has heard them boom 
Bellowing victory, bellowing doom ; 
When he with those deep voices 

wrought, 
Guarding realms and kings from shame ; 
With those deep voices our dead cap- 
tain taught 
The tyrant, and asserts his claim 
In that dread sound to the great name, 
Which he has worn so pure of blame, 
In praise and in dispraise the same, 
A man of well-attemper'd frame. 
O civic muse, to such a name, 
To such a name for ages long, 
To such a name, 

Preserve a broad approach of fame, 
And ever-ringing avenues of song. 



Who is he that cometh, like an honor'd 

guest, 
With banner and with music, with sol- 
dier and with priest, 
With a nation weeping, and breaking 

on my rest ? 
Mighty seaman, this is he 
Was great by land as thou by sea. 
Thine island loves thee well, thou fa- 
mous man, 
The greatest sailor since our world 

began. 
Now, to the roll of muffled drums, 
To thee the greatest soldier comes ; 
For this is he 

Was great by land as thou by sea ; 
His foes were thine ; he kept us free ; 
O give him welcome, this is he, 
Worthy of our gorgeous rites, 
And worthy to be laid by thee ; 
For this is England's greatest son, 
He that gain'd a hundred fights, 
Nor ever lost an English gun ; 
This is he that far away 
Against the myriads of Assaye 
Clash'd with his fiery few and won ; 
And underneath another sun, 
Warring on a later day, 
Round affrighted Lisbon drew 
The treble works, the vast designs 
Of his labor'd rampart-lines, 
Where he greatly stood at bay, 
Whence he issued forth anew, 
And ever great and greater grew, 
Beating from the wasted vines 
Back to France her banded swarms, 
Back to France with countless blows, 
Till o'er the hills her eagles flew 
Past the Pyrenean pines, 
Follow'd up in valley and glen 
With blare of bugle, clamor of men, 
Roll of cannon and clash of arms, 
And England pouring on her foes. 
Such a war had such a close. 
Again their ravening eagle rose 
In anger, wheel'd on Europe-shadow- 
ing wings, 
And barking for the thrones of kings ; 
Till one that sought but Duty's iron 

crown 
On that loud sabbath shook the spoiler 

down ; 
A day of onsets of despair 1 



232 



ODE ON THE DEATH OF WELLINGTON. 



Dash'd on every rocky square 
Their surging charges foam'd them- 
selves away ; 
Last, the Prussian trumpet blew ; 
Thro' the long-tormented air 
Heaven flash 'd a sudden jubilant ray, 
And down we swept and charged and 

overthrew. 
So great a soldier taught us there, 
What long-enduring hearts could do 
In that world' s-earthquake, Waterloo ! 
Mighty seaman, tender and true, 
And pure as he from taint of craven 

guile, 
O savior of the silver-coasted isle, 
O shaker of the Baltic and the Nile, 
If aught of things that here befall 
Touch a spirit among things divine, 
If love of country move thee there at all, 
Be glad, because his bones are laid by 

thine ! 
And thro' the centuries let a people's 

voice 
In full acclaim, 
A people's voice, 

The proof and echo of all human fame, 
A people's voice, when they rejoice 
At civic revel and pomp and game, 
Attest their great commander's claim 
With honor, honor, honor to him, 
Eternal honor to his name. 



A people's voice ! we are a people yet. 
Tho' all men else their nobler dreams 

forget 
Confused by brainless mobs and lawless 

Powers ; 
Thank Him who isled us here, and 

roughly set 
His Saxon in blown seas and storming 

showers, 
We have a voice, with which to pay the 

debt 
Of boundless love and reverence and 

regret 
To those great men who fought, and 

kept it ours. 
And keep it ours, O God, from brute 

control ; 
O Statesmen, guard us, guard the eye, 

the soul 
Of Europe, keep our noble England 

whole, 



And save the one true seed of freedom 

sown 
Betwixt a people and their ancient 

throne, 
That sober freedom out of which there 

springs 
Our loyal passion for our temperate 

kings ; 
For, saying that, ye help to save man- 
kind 
Till public wrong be crumbled into 

dust, 
And drill the raw world for the march 

of mind, 
Till crowds at length be sane and crowns 

be just. 
But wink no more in slothful overtrust. 
Remember him who led your hosts ; 
He bade you guard the sacred coasts. 
Your cannons moulder on the seaward 

wall ; 
His voice is silent in your council-hall 
Forever ; and whatever tempests lower 
Forever silent ; even if they broke 
In thunder, silent ; yet remember all 
He spoke among you, and the Man 

who spoke ; 
Whe never sold the truth to serve the 

hour, 
Nor palter'd with Eternal God for 

power ; 
Who let the turbid streams of rumor 

flow 
Thro' either babbling world of high and 

low ; 
Whose life was work, whose language 

rife 
With rugged maxims hewn from life ; 
Who never spoke against a foe ; 
Whose eighty winters freeze with one 

rebuke 
All great self-seekers trampling on the 

right : 
Truth-teller was our England's Alfred 

named ; 
Truth-lover was our English Duke ; 
Whatever record leap to light 
He never shall be shamed. 



Lo, the leader in these glorious wars 
Now to glorious burial slowly borne, 
Follow'd by the brave of other lands, 
He, on whom from both her open hands 



ODE ON THE DEATH OF WELLINGTON. 



233 



Lavish Honor shower'd all her stars, 
And affluent Fortune emptied all her 

horn. 
Yea, let alh good things await 
Him who cares not to be great, 
But as he saves or serves the state. 
Not once or twice in our rough island- 
story, 
The path of duty was the way to glory : 
He that walks it, only thirsting 
For the right, and learns to deaden 
Love of self, before his journey closes, 
He shall find the stubborn thistle 

bursting 
Into glossy purples, which outredden 
All voluptuous garden-roses. 
Not once or twice in our fair island- 
story, 
The path of duty was the way to glory : 
He, that ever following her commands, 
On with toil of heart and knees and 

hands, 
Thro' the long gorge to the far light 

has won 
His path upward, and prevail'd, 
Shall find the toppling crags of Duty 

scaled 
Are close upon the shining table-lands 
To which our God Himself is moon 

and sun. 
Such was he : his work is done. 
But while the races of mankind endure, 
Let his great example stand 
Colossal, seen of every land, 
And keep the soldier firm, the states- 
man pure ; 
Till in all lands and thro' all human story 
The path of duty be the way to glory : 
And let the land whose hearths he 

saved from' shame 
For many and many an age proclaim 
At civic revel and pomp and game, 
And when the long-illumined cities 

flame, 
Their ever-loyal iron leader's fame, 
With honor, honor, honor, honor to him, 
Eternal honor to his name. 



Peace, his triumph will be sung 

By some yet unmoulded tongue 

Far on in summers that we shall not see: 

Peace, it is a day of pain 

For one about whose patriarchal knee 



Late the little children clung : 

O peace, it is a day of pain 

For one, upon whose hand and heart 

and brain 
Once the weight and fate of Europe 

hung. 
Ours the pain, be his the gain ! 
More than is of man's degree 
Must be with us, watching here 
At this, our great solemnity. 
Whom we see not we revere. 
We revere, and we refrain 
From talk of battles loud and vain, 
And brawling memories all too free 
For such a wise humility 
As befits a solemn fane : 
We revere, and while we hear 
The tides of Music's golden sea 
Setting toward eternity, 
Uplifted high in heart and hope are we, 
Until we doubt not that for one so true 
There must be other nobler work to do 
Than when he fought at Waterloo, 
And Victor he must ever be. 
For tho' the Giant Ages heave the hill 
And break the shore, and evermore 
Make and break, and work their will ; 
Tho' world on world in myriad myriads 

roll 
Round us, each with different powers, 
And other forms of life than ours, 
What know we greater than the soul ? 
On God and Godlike men we build our 

trust. 
Hush, the Dead March wails in the 

people's ears : 
The dark crowd moves, and there are 

sobs and tears : 
The black earth yawns : the mortal 

disappears ; 
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust ; 
He is gone who seem'd so great. — 
Gone ; but nothing can bereave him 
Of the force he made his own 
Being here, and we believe him 
Something far advanced in state, 
And that he wears a truer crown 
Than any wreath that man can weave 

him. 
But speak no more of his renown, 
Lay your earthly fancies down, 
And in the vast cathedral leave him. 
God accept him, Christ receive him. 
1852. 



234 



THE DAISY. 



THE DAISY. 

WRITTEN AT EDINBURGH. 

O Love, what hours were thine and 

mine, 
In lands of palm and southern pine ; 

In lands of palm, of orange-blossom, 
Of olive, aloe, and maize and vine. 

What Roman strength Turbia show'd 
In ruin, by the mountain road ; 

How like a gem, beneath, the city 
Of little Monaco, basking, glow'd. 

How richly down the rocky dell 
The torrent vineyard streaming fell 

To meet the sun and sunny waters, 
That only heaved with a summer swell. 

What slender campanili grew 
By bays, the peacock's neck in hue ; 
Where, here and there, on sandy 
beaches 
A milky-bell'd amaryllis blew. 

How young Columbus seem'd to rove, 
Yet present in his natal grove, 

Now watching high on mountain 
cornice, 
And steering, now, from a purple cove, 

Now pacing mute by ocean's rim ; 
Till, in a narrow street and dim, 

I stay'd the wheels at Cogoletto, 
And drank, and loyally drank to him. 

Nor knew we well what pleased us most, 
Not the dipt palm of which they boast ; 

But distant color, happy hamlet, 
A moulder'd citadel on the coast, 
Or tower, or high hill-convent, seen 
A light amid its olives green ; 

Or olive-hoary cape in ocean ; 
Or rosy blossom in hot ravine, 

Where oleanders flush'd the bed 
Of silent torrents, gravel-spread ; 

And, crossing, oft we saw the glisten 
Of ice, far up on a mountain head. 
We loved that hall, tho' white and cold, 
Those niched shapes of noble mould, 

A princely people's awful princes, 
The grave, severe Genovese of old. 

At Florence too what golden hours, 
In those long galleries, were ours ; 

What drives about the fresh Cascine, 
Or walks in Boboli's ducal bowers. 



In bright vignettes, and each complete, 
Of tower or duomo, sunny-sweet, 

Or palace, how the city glitter'd, 
Thro' cypress avenues, at our feet. 

But when we crost the Lombard plain 
Remember what a plague of rain ; 

Of rain at Reggio, rain at Parma ; 
At Lodi, rain, Piacenza, rain. 

And stern and sad (so rare the smiles 
Of sunlight) look'd the Lombard piles; 

Porch-pillars on the lion resting, 
And sombre, old, colonnaded aisles. 

Milan, O the chanting quires, 
The giant windows' blazon'd fires, 

The height, the space, the gloom, the 
glory ! 
A mount of marble, a hundred spires ! 

1 climb'd the roofs at break of day ; 
Sun-smitten Alps before me lay. 

I stood among the silent statues, 
And statued pinnacles, mute as they. 

How faintly-flush'd, how phantom-fair, 
Was Monte Rosa, hanging there 
A thousand shadowy-pencill'd val- 
leys 
And snowy dells in a golden air. 

Remember how we came at last 
To Como ; shower and storm and blast 
Had blown the lake beyond his limit, 
And all was flooded ; and how we past 

From Como, when the light was gray, 
And in my head, for half the day, 

The rich Virgilian rustic measure 
Of Lari Maxume, all the way, 

Like ballad-burthen music, kept, 
As on the Lariano crept 

To that fair port below the castle 
Of Queen Theodolind, where we slept ; 

Or hardly slept, but watch'd awake 
A cypress in the moonlight shake, 

The moonlight touching o'er a terrace 
One tall Agave above the lake. 

What more ? we took our last adieu, 
And up the snowy Spiugen drew, 
But ere we reach' d the highest sum- 
mit 
I pluck'd a daisy, I gave it you. 



TO THE RE V. F. D. MA URICE. — WILL. 



235 



It told of England then to me, 
And now it tells of Italy. 

O love, we two shall go jio longer 
To lands of summer across the sea ; 

So dear a life your arms enfold 
Whose crying is a cry for gold : 

Yet here to-night in this dark city, 
When ill and weary, alone and cold, 

I found, tho' crush'd to hard and dry, 
This nurseling of another sky 

Still in the little book you lent me, 
And wheie you tenderly laid it by : 

And I forgot the clouded Forth, 
The gloom that saddens Heaven and 
Earth, 
The bitter east, the misty summer 
And gray metropolis of the North. 

Perchance, to lull the throbs of pain, 
Perchance, to charm a vacant brain, 
Perchance, to dream you still beside 
me, 
My fancy fled to the South again. 



TO THE REV. F. D. MAURICE. 

Come, when no graver cares employ, 
God-father, come and see your boy : 

Your presence will be sun in winter, 
Making the little one leap for joy. 

For, being of that honest few, 
Who give the Fiend himself his due, 
Should eighty thousand college coun- 
cils 
Thunder " Anathema," friend, at you ; 

Should all our churchmen foam in spite 
At you, so careful of the right, 

Yet one lay-hearth would give you 
welcome 
(Take it and come) to the Isle of Wight; 

Where, far from noise and smoke of 

town, 
I watch the twilight falling brown 

All round a careless-order'd garden 
Close to the ridge of a noble down. 

You '11 have no scandal while you dine, 
But honest talk and wholesome wine, 

And only hear the magpie gossip 
Garrulous under a roof of pine : 



For groves of pine on either hand, 
To break the blast of winter, stand ; 
. And further on, the hoary Channel 
Tumbles a breaker on chalk and sand ; 

Where, if below the milky steep 
Some ship of battle slowly creep, 
And on thro' zones of light and 
shadow 
Glimmer away to the lonely deep, 

We might discuss the Northern sin 
Which made a selfish war begin ; 
Dispute the claims, arrange the 
chances ; 
Emperor, Ottoman, which shall win : 

Or whether war's avenging rod 
Shall lash all Europe into blood ; 
Till you should turn to dearer mat- 
ters, 
Dear to the man that is dear to God ; 

How best to help the slender store, 
How mend the dwellings, of the poor ; 

How gain in life, as life advances, 
Valor and charity more and more. 

Come, Maurice, come : the lawn as yet 
Is hoar with rime, or spongy-wet ; 

But when the wreath of March has 
blossom'd, 
Crocus, anemone, violet, 
Or later, pay one visit here, 
For those are few we hold as dear ; 

Nor pay but one, but come for many, 
Many and many a happy year. 
January, 1854. 



WILL. 

O well for him whose will is strong ! 

He surfers, but he will not suffer long ; 

He suffers, but he cannot suffer wrong : 

For him nor moves the loud world's 
random mock, 

Nor all Calamity's hugest waves con- 
found, 

Who seems a promontory of rock, 

That, compass'd round with turbulent 
sound, 

In middle ocean meets the surging 
shock, 

Tempest-buffeted, citadel-crown'd. 



236 



THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. 



But ill for him who, bettering not with 
time, 

Corrupts the strength of heaven-de- 
scended Will, 

And ever weaker grows thro' acted 
crime, 

Or seeming-genial venial fault, 

Recurring and suggesting still ! 

He seems as one whose footsteps 
halt, 

Toiling in immeasurable sand, 

And o'er a weary, sultry land, 

Far beneath a blazing vault, 

Sown in a wrinkle of the monstrous 
hill, 

The city sparkles like a grain of salt. 



THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT 
BRIGADE. 



Half a league, half a league, 
Half a league onward, 
All in the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 
" Forward, the Light Brigade ! 
" Charge for the guns ! " he said : 
Into the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 



" Forward, the Light Brigade ! " 
Was there a man dismay'd? 
Not tho' the soldier knew 

Some one had blunder'd : 
Theirs not to make reply, 
Theirs not to reason why, 
Theirs but to do and die, 
Into the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 



3- 
Cannon to right of them, 
Cannon to left of them, 
Cannon in front of them 

Volley'dand thunder'd ; 
Storm'd at with shot and shell, 
Boldly they rode and well, 
Into the jaws of Death, 
Into the mouth of Hell 

Rode the six hundred. 



Flash'd all their sabres bare, 
Fiash'd as they turn'd in air, 
Sabring the gunners there, 
Charging an army, while 

All the world wonder' d : 
Plunged in the battery-smoke, 
Right thro' the line they broke ; 
Cossack and Russian 
Reel'd from the sabre-stroke 

Shatter'd and sunder' d. 
Then they rode back, but not 

Not the six hundred. 



Cannon to right of them, 
Cannon to left of them, 
Cannon behind them 

Volley'd and thunder'd ; 
Storm'd at with shot and shell, 
While horse and hero fell, 
They that had fought so well 
.Came thro' the jaws of Death 
-' Back from the mouth of Hell, 
All that was left of them, 

Left of six hundred. 



When can their glory fade ? 
O the wild charge they made ! 

All the world wonder'd. 
Honor the charge they made 1 
Honor the Light Brigade, 

Noble six hundred ! 



ENID. 



IDYLS OF THE KING. 



'Flos Regum Arthurus." 

Joseph of Exeter. 



DEDICATION. 

These to His Memory — since he held 
them dear, 

Perchance as finding there uncon- 
sciously 

Some image of himself — I dedicate, 

I dedicate, I consecrate with tears — 

These Idyls. 

And indeed He seems to me 

Scarce other than my own ideal knight, 

" Who reverenced his conscience as his 
king; 

Whose glory was, redressing human 
wrong ; 

Who spake no slander, no, nor listen' d 
to it; 

Who loved one only and who clave 
to her — " 

Her — over all whose realms to their 
last isle, 

Commingled with the gloom of im- 
minent war, 

The shadow of His loss moved like 
eclipse, 

Darkening the world. We have lost 
him : he is gone : 

We know him now : all narrow jeal- 
ousies 

Are silent ; and we see him as he 
moved, 

How modest, kindly, all-accomplish'd, 
wise, 

With what sublime repression of him- 
self, 

And in what limits, and how tenderly ; 

Not swaying to this faction or to that ; 

Not making his high place the lawless 
perch 

Of wing'd ambitions, nor a vantage- 
ground 

For pleasure ; but thro' all this tract 

Wearing the white flower of a blameless 
life, 



Before a thousand peering littlenesses, 
In that fierce light which beats upon a 

throne, 
And blackens every blot : for where 

is he, 
Who dares foreshadow for an only son 
A lovelier life, a more unstain'd, than 

his? 
Or how should England dreaming of 

his sons 
Hope more for these than some in- 
heritance 
Of such a life, a heart, a mind as thine, 
Thou noble Father of her Kings to be, 
Laborious for her people and her 

poor — 
Voice in the rich dawn of an ampler 

day — 
Far-sighted summoner of War and 

Waste 
To fruitful strifes and rivalries of 

peace — 
Sweet nature gilded by the gracious 

gleam 
Of letters, dear to Science, dear to Art, 
Dear to thy land and ours, a Prince 

indeed, 
Beyond all titles, and a household 

name, 
Hereafter, thro' all times, Albert the 

Good. 

Break not, O woman's-heart, but 

still endure ; 
Break not, for thou art Royal, but 

endure, 
Remembering all the beauty of that 

star 
Which shone so close beside Thee, 

that ye made 
One light together, but has past and 

left 
The Crown of lonely splendor. 

May all love, 



23 8 



ENID. 



His love, unseen but felt, o'ershadow 

Thee, 
The love of all Thy sons encompass 

Thee, 
The love of all Thy daughters cherish 

Thee, 
The love of all Thy people comfort 

Thee, 
Till God's love set Thee at his side 

again ! 



ENID. 

The brave Geraint, a knight of Arthur's 

court, 
A tributary prince of Devon, one 
Of that great order of the Table Round, 
Had married Enid, Yniol's only child, 
And loved her, as he loved the light of 

Heaven. 
And as the light of Heaven varies, now 
At sunrise, now at sunset, now by night 
With moon and trembling stars, so 

loved Geraint 
To make her beauty vary day by day, 
In crimsons and in purples and in gems. 
And Enid, but to please her husband's 

eye, 
Who first had found and loved her in a 

state 
Of broken fortunes, daily fronted him 
In some fresh splendor ; and the Queen 

herself, 
Grateful to Prince Geraint for service 

done, 
Loved her, and often with her own 

white hands 
Array'd and deck'd her, as the loveliest, 
Next after her own self, in all the court. 
And Enid loved the Queen, and with 

true heart 
Adored her, as the stateliest and the 

best 
And loveliest of all women upon earth. 
And seeing them so tender and so close, 
Long in their common love rejoiced 

Geraint. 
But when a rumor rose about the 

Queen, 
Touching her guilty love for Lancelot, 
Tho' yet there lived no proof, nor yet 

was heard 



The world's loud v/hisper breaking into 

storm, 
Not less Geraint believed it ; and there 

fell 
A horror on him, lest his gentle wife, 
Thro' that great tenderness to Guine- 
vere, 
Had suffer'd, or should suffer any taint 
In nature : wherefore going to the king, 
He made this pretext, that his prince- 
dom lay 
Close on the borders of a territory, 
Wherein were bandit earls, and caitiff 

knights, 
Assassins, and all flyers from the hand 
Of Justice, and whatever loathes a 

law; 
And therefore, till the king himself 

should please 
To cleanse this common sewer of all 

his realm, 
He craved a fair permission to depart, 
And there- defend his marches; and 

the king 
Mused for a little on his plea, but, last, 
Allowing it, the Prince and Enid rode, 
And fifty knights rode with them, to 

the shores 
Of Severn, and they past to their own 

land ; 
Where, thinking, that if ever yet was 

wife 
True to her lord, mine shall be so to me, 
He compass' d her with sweet observ- 
ances 
And worship, never leaving her, and 

grew 
Forgetful of his promise to the king, 
Forgetful of the falcon and the hunt, 
Forgetful of the tilt and tournament, 
Forgetful of his glory and his name, 
Forgetful of his princedom and its cares. 
And this forgetfulness was hateful to 

her. 
And by and by the people, when they 

met 
In twos and threes, or fuller companies, 
Began to scoff and jeer and babble of 

him 
As of a prince whose manhood was all 

gone, 
And molten down in mere uxoriousness. 
And this she gather'd from the people's 

eyes : 



ENID. 



2.39 



This too the women who attired her 
head, 

To please her, dwelling on his bound- 
less love, 

Told Enid, and they sadden'd her the 
more ; 

And day by day she thought to tell 
Geraint, 

But could not out of bashful delicacy ; 

While he that watch'd her sadden, was 
the more 

Suspicious that her nature had a taint. 

At last, it chanced that on a summer 

morn 
(They sleeping each by other ) the new 

sun 
Beat thro' the blindless casement of 

the room, 
And heated the strong warrior in his 

dreams ; 
Who, moving, cast the coverlet aside, 
And bared the knotted column of his 

throat, 
The massive square of his heroic breast, 
And arms on which the standing muscle 

sloped, 
As slopes a wild brook o'er a little stone, 
Running too vehemently to break 

upon it. 
And Enid woke and sat beside the 

couch, 
Admiring him, and thought within her- 
self, 
Was ever man so grandly made as he ? 
Then, like a shadow, past the people's 

talk 
And accusation of uxoriousness 
Across her mind, and bowing over him, 
Low to her own heart piteously she said: 

" O noble breast and all-puissant 

arms, 
Am I the cause, I the poor cause that 

men 
Reproach you, saying all your force is 

gone ? 
I am the cause because I dare not speak 
And tell him what I think and what 

they say. 
And yet I hate that he should linger 

here ; 
I cannot love my lord and not his name. 
Far liever had I gird his harness on him, 



And ride with him to battle and stand 

by, 
And watch his mightful hand striking 

great blows 
At caitiffs and at wrongers of the world. 
Far better were I laid in the dark earth, 
Not hearing any more his noble voice, 
Not to be folded more in these dear 

arms, 
And darken'd from the high light in 

his eyes, 
Than that my lord thro' me should 

suffer shame. 
Am I so bold, and could I so stand by, 
And see my dear lord wounded in the 

strife, 
Or may be pierced to death before 

mine eyes, 
And yet not dare to tell him what I 

think, 
And how men slur him, saying all his 

force 
Is melted into mere effeminacy ? 
O me, I fear that I am no true wife." 

Half inwardly, half audibly she spoke, 
And the strong passion in her made 

her weep 
True tears upon his broad and naked 

breast, 
And these awoke him, and by great 

mischance 
He heard but fragments of her later 

words, 
And that she fear'd she was not a true 

wife. 
And then he thought, "In spite of all 

my care, 
For all my pains, poor man, for all my 

( pains, 
She is not faithful to me, and I see 

her 
Weeping for some gay knight in 

Arthur's hall." 
Then tho' he loved and reverenced 

her too much 
To dream she could be guilty of foul 

act, 
Right thro' his manful breast darted 

the pang 
That makes a man, in the sweet face 

of her 
Whom he loves most, lonely and 

miserable. 



240 



ENID. 



At this he hurl'd his huge limbs out 

of bed, 
And shook his drowsy squire awake 

and cried, 
" My charger and her palfrey," then to 

her, 
" I will ride forth into the wilderness ; 
For tho' it seems my spurs are yet to 

• win, 
I have not fall'n so low as some would 

wish. 
And you, put on your worst and 

, meanest dress 
And ride with me." And Enid ask'd, 

amazed, 
" If Enid errs, let Enid learn her fault." 
But he, "I charge you, ask not, but 

obey." 
Then she bethought her of a faded silk, 
A faded mantle and a faded veil, 
And moving toward a cedarn cabinet, 
Wherein she kept them folded rev- 
erently 
With sprigs of summer laid between 

the folds, 
She took them, and array'd herself 

therein, 
Remembering when first he came on her 
Drest in that dress, and how he loved 

her in it, 
And all her foolish fears about the dress, 
And all his journey to her, as himself 
Had told her, and their coming to the 

court. 

For Arthur on the Whitsuntide be- 
fore 
Held court at old Caerleon upon Usk. 
There on a day, he sitting high in hall, 
Before him came a forester of Dean, 
Wet from the woods, with notice of a 

hart 
Taller than all his fellows, milky-white, 
First seen that day : these things he 

told the king. 
Then the good king gave order to let 

blow 
His horns for hunting on the morrow 

morn. 
And when the Queen petition'd for 

his leave 
To see the hunt, allow'd it easily. 
So with the morning all the court were 

gone. 



But Guinevere lay late into the morn, 
Lost in sweet dreams, and dreaming 

of her love 
For Lancelot, and forgetful of the hunt ; 
But rose at last, a single maiden with 

her, 
Took horse, and forded Usk, and 

gain'd the wood ; 
There, on a little knoll beside it, stay'd 
Waiting to hear the hounds ; but heard 

instead 
A sudden sound of hoofs, for Prince 

Geraint, 
Late also, wearing neither hunting- 
dress 
Nor weapon, save a golden-hilted 

brand, 
Came quickly flashing thro' the shallow 

ford 
Behind them, and so gallop'd up the 

knoll. 
A purple scarf, at either end whereof 
There swung an apple of the purest 

gold, 
Sway'd round about him, as he gallop'd 

. U P 
To join them, glancing like a dragon-fly 
In summer suit and silks of holiday. 
Low bow'd the tributary Prince, and 

she, 
Sweetly and statelily, and with all grace 
Of womanhood and queenhood, an- 
swer' d him : 
" Late, late, Sir Prince," she said, 

"later than we ! " 
"Yea, noble Queen," he answer'd, 

" and so late 
That I but come like you to see the 

hunt, 
Not join it." "Therefore wait with 

me," she said; 
" For on this little knoll, if anywhere, 
There is good chance that we shall 

hear the hounds : 
Here often they break covert at our 

feet." 

And while they listen'd for the distant 

hunt, 
And chiefly for the baying of Cavall, 
King Arthur's hound of deepest mouth, 

there rode 
Full slowly by a knight, lady, and 

dwarf; 



ENID. 



241 



Whereof the dwarf lagg'd latest, and 

the knight 
Had visor up, and show'd a youthful 

face, 
Imperious, and of haughtiest linea- 
ments. 
And Guinevere, not mindful of his face 
In the king's hall, desired his name, 

and sent 
Her maiden to demand it of the dwarf ; 
Who being vicious, old, and irritable, 
And doubling all his master's vice of 

pride, 
Made answer sharply that she should 

not know. 
"Then will I ask it of himself," she 

said. 
" Nay, by my faith, thou shalt not," 

cried the dwarf; 
"Thou art not worthy ev'n to speak 

of him " ; 
And when she put her horse toward 

the knight. 
Struck at her with his whip, and she 

return'd 
Indignant to the Queen ; at which 

Geraint 
Exclaiming, " Surely I will learn the 

name," 
Made sharply to the dwarf, and ask'd 

it of him, 
Who answer'd as before ; and when 

the Prince 
Had put his horse in motion toward 

the knight, 
Struck at him with his whip, and cut 

his cheek. 
The Prince's blood spirted upon the 

scarf, 
Dyeing it : and his quick, instinctive 

hand 
Caught at the hilt, as to abolish him : 
But he, from his exceeding manful- 

ness 
And pure nobility of temperament, 
Wroth to be wroth at such a worm, 

refrain' d 
From ev'n a word, and so returning 

said : 

" I will avenge this insult, noble 
Queen, 
Done in your maiden's person to your- 
self: 

16 



And I will track this vermin to their 
earths : 

For tho' I ride unarm'd, I do not doubt 

To find, at some place I shall come 
at, arms 

On loan, or else for pledge ; and, being 
found, 

Then will I fight him, and will break 
his pride, 

And on the third day will again be here, 

So that I be not fall'n in fight. Fare- 
well." 

" Farewell, fair Prince," answer'd 

the stately Queen. 
" Be prosperous in this journey, as in 

all; 
And may you light on all things that 

you love, 
And live to wed with her whom first 

you love : 
But ere you wed with any, bring your 

bride, 
And I, were she the daughter of a king, 
Yea, tho' she were a beggar from the 

hedge, 
Will clothe her for her bridals like the 



And Prince Geraint, now thinking 

that he heard 
The noble hart at bay, now the far horn, 
A little vext at losing of the hunt, 
A little at the vile occasion, rode, 
By ups and downs, thro' many a grassy 

glade 
And valley, with fixt eye following the 

three. 
At last they issued from the world of 

wood, 
And climb'd upon a fair and even ridge, 
And shovy'd themselves against the 

sky, and sank. 
And thither came Geraint, and under- 
neath 
Beheld the long street of a little town 
In a long valley, on one side of which, 
White from the mason's hand, a fortress 

rose ; 
And on one side a castle in decay, 
Beyond a bridge that spann'd a dry 

ravine : 
And out of town and valley came a noise 
As of a broad brook o'er a shingly bed 



242 



ENID. 



Brawling, or like a clamor of the rooks 
At distance, ere they settle for the night. 

And onward to the fortress rode the 
three, 

And enter'd, and were lost behind the 
walls. 

" So," thought Geraint, " I have 
track' d him to his earth." 

And down the long street riding wea- 
rily, 

Found every hostel full, and every- 
where 

Was hammer laid to hoof, and the hot 
hiss 

And bustling whistle of the youth who 
scour'd 

His master's armor; and of such a 
one 

He ask'd, " What means the tumult in 
the town? " 

Who told him, scouring still, "The 
sparrow-hawk ! " < 

Then riding close behind an ancient 
churl, 

Who, smitten by the dusty sloping 
beam, 

Went sweating underneath a sack of 
corn, 

Ask'd yet once more what meant the 
hubbub here? 

Who answer' d gruffly, " Ugh ! the 
sparrow-hawk." 

Then riding further past an armorer's, 

Who, with back turn'd, and bow'd 
above his work, 

Sat riveting a helmet on his knee, 

He put the selfsame query, but the 
man 

Not turning round, nor looking at him, 
said : 

" Friend, he that labors for the sparrow- 
hawk 

Has little time for idle questioners." 

Whereat Geraint flash'd into sudden 
spleen : 

" A thousand pips eat up your sparrow- 
hawk ! 

Tits, wrens, and all wing'd nothings 
peck him dead ! 

Ye think the rustic cackle of your bourg 

The murmur of the world I What is it 
to me ? 

O wretched set of sparrows, one and all, 



Who pipe of nothing but of sparrow- 
hawks ! 

Speak, if you be not like the rest, 
hawk-mad, 

Where can I get me harborage for the 
night ? 

And arms, arms, arms to fight my en- 
emy ? Speak ! " 

At this the armorer turning all amazed 

And seeing one so gay in purple silks, 

Came forward with the helmet yet in 
hand 

And answer' d, " Pardon me, O stran- 
ger knight ; 

We hold a. tourney here to-morrow 
morn, 

And there is scantly time for half the 
work. 

Arms ? truth ! I know not : all are 
wanted here, 

Harborage ? truth, good truth, I know 
not, save, 

It may be, at Earl Yniol's, o'er the 
bridge 

Yonder." He spoke and fell to work 
again. 

Then rode Geraint, a little spleenful 
yet, 

Across the bridge that spann'd the dry 
ravine. 

There musing sat the hoary-headed 
Earl, 

(His dress a suit of fray'd magnificence, 

Once fk for feasts of ceremony) and 
said : 

" Whither, fair son ? " to whom Geraint 
replied, 

" O friend, I seek a harborage for the 
night." 

Then Yniol, " Enter therefore and par- 
take 

The slender entertainment of a house 

Once rich, now poor, but ever open- 
door'd." 

"Thanks, venerable friend," replied 
Geraint ; 

" So that you do not serve me sparrow- 
hawks 

For supper, I will enter, I will eat 

With all the passion of a twelve hours' 
fast." 

Then sigh'd and smiled the hoary- 
headed Earl, 



ENID. 



243 



And answer d, " Graver cause than 
yours is mine 

To curse this hedgerow thief, the spar- 
row-hawk : 

But in, go in ; for, save yourself desire it, 

We will not touch upon him ev'n in 
jest." 

Then rode Geraint into the castle 

court, 
His charger trampling many a prickly 

star 
Of sprouted thistle on the broken 

stones. 
He look'd and saw that all was ruinous. 
Here stood a shatter'd archway plumed 

with fern ; 
And here had fall'n a great part of a 

tower, 
Whole, like a crag that tumbles from 

the cliff, 
And like a crag was gay with wilding 

flowers : 
And high above a piece of turret stair, 
Worn by the feet that now were silent, 

wound 
Bare to the sun, and monstrous ivy- 
stems 
Claspt the gray walls with hairy-fibred 

arms, 
And suck' d the joining of the stones, 

and look'd 
A knot, beneath, of snakes, aloft, a 

grove. 

And while he waited in the castle 

court, 
The voice of Enid, Yniol's daughter, 

rang 
Clear thro' the open casement of the 

Hall, 
Singing ; and as the sweet voice of a 

bird, 
Heard by the lander in a lonely isle, 
Moves him to think what kind of bird 

it is 
That sings so delicately clear, and 

make 
Conjecture of the plumage and the 

form j 
So the sweet voice of Enid moved 

Geraint ; 
And made him like a man abroad at 

morn 



When first the liquid note beloved of 

men 
Comes flying over many a windy wave 
To Britain, and in April suddenly 
Breaks from a coppice gemm'd with 

green and red, 
And he suspends his converse with a 

friend, 
Or it may be the labor of his hands, 
To think or say, " there is the night- 
ingale " ; 
So fared it with Geraint, who thought 

and said, 
" Here, by God's grace, is the one 
voice for me." 

It chanced the song that Enid sang 
was one 
Of Fortune and her wheel, and Enid . 
sang : 

" Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel and 

lower the proud ; 
Turn thy wild wheel thro' sunshine, 

storm, and cloud ; 
Thy wheel and thee we neither love 

nor hate. 

"Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel with 

smile or frown ; 
With that wild wheel we go not up or 

down ; 
Our hoard is little, but our hearts are 

great. 

" Smile and we smile, the lords of 

many lands ; 
Frown and we smile, the lords of our 

own hands ; 
For man is man and master of his fate. 

"Turn, turn thy wheel above the 

staring crowd ; 
Thy wheel and thou are shadows in 

the cloud ; 
Thy wheel and thee we neither love 

nor hate." 

" Hark, by the bird's song you may 
learn the nest," 

Said Yniol ; " Enter quickly." En- 
tering then, 

Right o'er a mount of newly-fallen 
stones, 

The dusky-rafter'd many-cobweb'd 
Hall, 



244 



ENID. 



He found an ancient dame in dim bro- 
cade ; 

And near her, like a blossom vermeil- 
white, 

That lightly breaks a faded flower- 
sheath, 

Moved the fair Enid, all in faded silk, 

Her daughter. In a moment thought 
Geraint, 

" Here by God's rood is the one maid 
for me." 

But none spake word except the hoary 
Earl : 

" Enid, the good knight's horse stands 
in the court ; 

Take him to stall, and give him corn, 
and then 

Go to the town and buy us flesh and 
wine ; 

And we will make us merry as we may. 

Our hoard is little, but our hearts are 
great." 

He spake : the Prince, as Enid past 

him, fain 
To follow, strode a stride, but Yniol 

caught 
His purple scarf, -and held, and said 

" Forbear ! 
Rest ! the good house, tho' ruin'd, O 

my Son, 
Endures not that her guest should serve 

himself." 
And reverencing the custom of the 

house 
Geraint, from utter courtesy, forbore. 

So Enid took his charger to the stall ; 
And after went her way across the 

bridge, 
And reach'd the town, and while the 

Prince and Earl 
Yet spoke together, came again with 

one, 
A youth, that following with a costrel 

bore 
The means of goodly welcome, flesh 

and wine. 
And Enid brought sweet cakes to make 

them cheer, 
And in her veil enfolded, manchet 

bread. 
And then, because their hall must also 

serve 



For kitchen, boil'd the flesh, and spread 

the board, 
And stood behind, and waited on the 

three. 
And seeing her so sweet and service- 
able, 
Geraint had longing in him evermore 
To stoop and kiss the tender little 

thumb, 
That crost the trencher as she laid it 

down : 
But after all had eaten, then Geraint, 
For now the wine made summer in his 

veins, 
Let his eye rove in following, or rest 
On Enid at her lowly handmaid-work, 
Now here, now there, about the dusky 

hall; 
Then suddenly addrest the hoary Earl : 

" Fair Host and Earl, I pray your 

courtesy ; 
This sparrow-hawk, what is he, tell me 

of him. 
His name ? but no, good faith, I will 

not have it : 
Fx>r if he be the knight whom late I 

saw 
Ride into that new fortress by your 

town, 
White from the mason's hand, then 

have I sworn 
From his own lips to have it — I am 

Geraint 
Of Devon — for this morning when the 

Queen 
Sent her own maiden to demand the 

name, 
His dwarf, a vicious under-shapen 

thing, 
Struck at her with his whip, and she 

return'd 
Indignant to the Queen ; and then I 

swore 
That I would track this caitiff to his 

hold, 
And fight and break his pride, and have 

it of him. 
And all unarm'd I rode, and thought 

to find 
Arms in your town, where all the men 

are mad ; 
They take the rustic murmur of their 

bourg 



ENID. 



245 



For the great wave that echoes round 
the world ; 

They would not hear me speak : but if 
you know 

Where I can light on arms, or if your- 
self 

Should have them, tell me, seeing I 
have sworn 

That I will break his pride and learn 
his name, 

Avenging this great insult done the 
Queen." 

Then cried Earl Yniol : " Art thou 

he indeed, 
Geraint, a name far-sounded among 

men 
For noble deeds ? and truly I, when 

first 
I saw you moving by me on the bridge, 
Felt you were somewhat, yea and by 

your state 
And presence might have guess'd you 

one of those 
That eat in Arthur's hall at Camelot. 
Nor speak I now from foolish flattery ; 
For this dear child hath often heard 

me praise 
Your feats of arms, and often when I 

paused 
Hath ask'd again, and ever loved to 

hear ; / 

So grateful is the noise of noble deeds 
To noble hearts % who see but acts of 

wrong : 

never yet had woman such a pair 
Of suitors as this maiden ; first Li- 

mours, 
A creature wholly given to brawls and 

wine, 
Drunk even when he woo'd ; and be 

he dead 

1 know not, but he past to the wild land. 
The second was your foe, the sparrow- 
hawk, 

My curse, my nephew, — I will not let 

his name 
Slip from my lips if I can help it — he, 
When I that knew him fierce and 

turbulent 
Refused her to him, then his pride 

awoke ; 
And since the proud man often is the 

mean, 



He sow'd a slander in the common ear, 
Affirming that his father left him gold, 
And in my charge, which was not 

render'd to him ; 
Bribed with large promises the men 

who served 
About my person, the more easily 
Because my means were somewhat 

broken into 
Thro' open doors and hospitality ; 
Raised my own town against me in 

the night 
Before my Enid's birthday, sack'd my 

house ; 
From mine own earldom foully ousted 

me; 
Built that new fort to overawe my 

friends, 
For truly there are those who love me 

yet; 
And keeps me in this ruinous castle 

here, 
Where doubtless he would put me soon 

to death, 
But that his pride too much despises 

me: 
And I myself sometimes despise my- 
self; 
For I have let men be, and have their 

way; 
And much too gentle, have not used 

my power : 
Nor know I whether I be very base 
Or very manful, whether very wise 
Or very foolish ; only this I know, 
That whatsoever evil happen to me, 
I seem to suffer nothing heart or limb, 
But can endure it all most patiently." 

" Well said, true heart," replied Ge- 
raint, " but arms : 

That if, as I suppose, your nephew 
fights 

In next day's tourney I may break his 
pride." 

And Yniol answer'd : "Arms, indeed, 

but old 
And rusty, old and rusty, Prince 

Geraint, 
Are mine, and therefore at your asking, 

yours. 
But in this tournament can no man tilt, 
Except the lady he loves best be there. 



246 



ENID. 



Two forks are fixt into the meadow 

ground, 
And over these is laid a silver wand, 
And over that is placed the sparrow- 
hawk, 
The prize of beauty for the fairest there. 
And this, what knight soever be in field 
Lays claim to for the lady at his side, 
And tilts with my good nephew there- 
upon, 
Who being apt at arms and big of bone 
Has ever won it for the lady with him, 
And toppling over all antagonism 
Has earn'd himself the name of spar- 
row-hawk. 
But you, that have no lady, cannot 
fight." 

To whom Geraint with eyes all bright 

replied, 
Leaning a little toward him, "Your 

leave ! 
Let me lay lance in rest, O noble host, 
For this dear child, because I never saw, 
Tho' having seen all beauties of our 

time, 
Nor can see elsewhere, anything so fair. 
And if I fall her name will yet remain 
Untarmsh'd as before ; but if I live, 
So aid me Heaven when at mine 

uttermost, 
As I will make her truly my true wife." 

Then,howsoeverpatient,Yniol'sheart 

Danced m his bosom, seeing better 
days. 

And looking round he saw not Enid 
there, 

( Who hearing her own name had slipt 
away ) 

But that old dame, to whom full ten- 
derly 

And fondling all her hand in his he said, 
Mother, a maiden is a tender thing, 

And best by her that bore her under- 
stood. 

Go thou to rest, but ere thou go to rest 

lell her, and prove her heart toward 
the Prince." 

So spake the kindly-hearted Earl, 
and she 
With frequent smile and nod departing 
found, v s 



Half disarray'd as to her rest, the girl • 
Whom first she kiss'd on either cheek 

and then 
On either shining shoulder laid a hand, 
And kept her off and gazed upon her 

face, 
And toldher all theirconverse in the hall, 
Proving her heart : but never light and 

shade 
Coursed one another more on open 

ground 
Beneath a troubled heaven, than red 

and pale 

4 C um SS t , he face of Enid hearing her- 
While slowly falling as a scale that falls, 
When weight is added only grain bv 
gram, ' 

Sank her sweet head upon her gentle 

breast ; 
Nor did she lift an eye nor speak a word, 
Kapt in the fear and in the wonder of it ■ 
bo moving without answer to her rest 
She found no rest, and ever fail'd to 

draw 
The quiet night into her blood, but lay 
Contemplating her own unworthiness ; 
And when the pale and bloodless east 

began 
To quicken to the sun, arose, and raised 
±ler mother too, and hand in hand they 

moved 
Down to the meadow where the jousts 

were held, 
And waited there for, Yniol and Ge- 
raint. 

And thither came the twain, and 
when Geraint 
Beheld her first in field, awaiting him, 
He felt, were she the prize of bodily 

force, 
Himself beyond the rest pushing could 

move 
The chair of Idris. Yniol' s rusted ai ms 
Were on his princely person, but thro' 

these 
Princelike his bearing shone ; and er- 
rant knights 
And ladies came, and by and by the 

town 
Flow'd in, and settling circled all the 

lists. 
And there they fixt the forks into the 
ground, 



ENID. 



247 



And over these they placed a silver wand 
And over that a golden sparrow-hawk. 
Then Yniol's nephew, after trumpet 

blown, 
Spake to the lady with him and pro- 

claim'd, 
" Advance and take as fairest of the fair, 
For 1 these two years past have won it 

for thee, 
The prize of beauty." Loudly spake 

the Prince, 
"Forbear: there is a worthier," and 

the knight 
With some surprise and thrice as much 

disdain 
Turn'd, and beheld the four, and all 

his face 
Glow'd like the heart of a great fire at 

Yule, 
So burnt he was with passion, crying 

out, 
" Do battle for it then," no more ; and 

thrice 
They clash' d together, and thrice they 

brake their spears. 
Then each, dishorsed and drawing, 

lash'd at each 
So often and with such blows, that all 

the crowd 
Wonder' d, and now and then from 

distant walls 
There came a clapping as of phantom 

hands. 
So twice they fought, and twice they 

breathed, and still 
The dew of their great labor, and the 

blood 
Of their strong bodies, flowing, drain'd 

their force. 
But either's force was match'd till 

Yniol's cry, 
" Remember that great insult done the 

Queen," 
Increased Geraint's, who heaved his 

blade aloft, 
And crack'd the helmet thro', and bit 

the bone, 
And fell'd him, and set foot upon his 

breast, 
And said, "Thy name?" To whom 

the fallen man 
Made answer, groaning, " Edyrn, son 

of Nudd ! 
Ashamed am I that I should tell it thee. 



My pride is broken : men have seen 

my fall." 
"Then, Edyrn, son of Nudd," replied 

Geraint, 
"These two things shalt thou do, or 

else thou diest. 
First, thou thyself, thy lady, and thy 

dwarf, 
Shalt ride to Arthur's court, and being 

there, 
Crave pardon for that insult done the 

Queen, 
And shalt abide her judgment on it ; 

next, 
Thou shalt give back their earldom to 

thy kin. 
These two things shalt thou do, or thou 

shalt die." 
And Edyrn answer'd, "These things 

will I do, 
For I have never yet been overthrown, 
And thou hast overthrown me, and my 

pride 
Is broken down, for Enid sees my 

fall !" 
And rising up, he rode to Arthur's 

court, 
And there the Queen forgave him 

easily. 
And being young, he changed himself, 

and grew 
To hate the sin that seem'd so like his 

own 
Of Modred, Arthur's nephew, and fell 

at last 
In the great battle fighting for the king. 

But when the third day from the 

hunting-morn 
Made a low splendor in the world, 

and wings 
Moved in her ivy, Enid, for she lay 
With her fair head in the dim-yellow 

light, 
Among the dancing shadows of the 

birds, 
Woke and bethought her of her promise 

given 
No later than last eve to Prince 

Geraint — 
So bent he seem'd on going the third 

day, 
He would not leave her, till her promise 

given — 



248 



ENID. 



To ride with him this morning to the 

court, 
And there be made known to the stately 

Queen, 
And there be wedded with all cere- 
mony. 
At this she cast her eyes upon her dress, 
And thought it never yet had look'd 

so mean. 
For as a leaf in mid-November is 
To what it was in mid-October, seem'd 
The dress that now she look'd on to 

the dress 
She look'd on ere the coming of Geraint. 
And still she look'd, and still the terror 

grew 
Of that strange bright and dreadful 

thing, a court. 
All staring at her in her faded silk : 
And softly to her own sweet heart she 

said : 

" This noble Prince who won our 
earldom back, 
So splendid in his acts and his attire, 
Sweet heaven, how much I shall dis- 
credit him ! 
Would he could tarry with us here 

awhile ! 
But being so beholden to the Prince, 
It were but little grace in any of us, 
Bent as he seem'd on going this third 

day, 
To seek a second favor at his hands. 
Yet if he could but tarry a day or two, 
Myself would work eye dim, and finger 

lame, 
Far liefer than so much discredit him." 

And Enid fell in longing for a dress 
All branch'd and flower' d with gold, 

a costly gift 
Of her good mother, given her on the 

night 
Before her birthday, three sad years 

ago, 
That night of fire, when Edyrn sack'd 

their house, 
And scatter'd all they had to all the 

winds : 
For while the mother show'd it, and 

the two 
Were turning and admiring it, the work 
To both appear' d so costly, rose a cry 



That Edyrn's men were on them, and 

they fled 
With little save the jewels they had on, 
Which being sold and sold had bought 

them bread : 
And Edyrn's men had caught them in 

their flight, 
And placed them in this ruin ; and she 

wish'd 
The Prince had found her in her an- 
cient home ; 
Then let her fancy flit across the past, 
And roam the goodly places that she 

knew ; 
And last bethought her how she used 

to watch, 
Near that old home, a pool of golden 

carp; 
And one was patch'd and blurr'd and 

lustreless 
Among his burnish'd brethren of the 

pool : 
And half asleep she made comparison 
Of that and these to her own faded self 
And the gay court, and fell asleep 

again ; 
And dreamt herself was such a faded 

form 
Among her burnish'd sisters of the 

pool ; 
But this was in the garden of a king ; 
And tho' she lay dark in the pool, she 

knew 
That all was bright ; that all about 

were birds 
Of sunny plume in gilded trellis-work ; 
That all the turf was rich in plots that 

look'd 
Each like a garnet or a turkis in it ; 
And lords and ladies of the high court 

went 
In silver tissue talking things of state ; 
And children of the king in cloth of 

gold 
Glanced at the doors or gambol'd down 

the walks ; 
And while she thought " they will not 

see me," came 
A stately queen whose name was Guin- 
evere, 
And all the children in their cloth of 

gold 
Ran to her, crying, " If we have fish at 

all 



ENID. 



249 



Let them be gold ; and charge the gar- 
deners now 
To pick the faded creature from the 

pool, 
And cast it on the mixen that it die." 
And therewithal one came and seized 

on her, 
And Enid started waking, with her 

heart 
All overshadow'd by the foolish dream, 
And lo! it was her mother grasping 

her 
To get her well awake ; and in her 

hand 
A suit of bright apparel, which she laid 
Flat on the couch, and spoke exult- 

ingly : 

" See here, my child, how fresh the 

colors look, 
How fast they hold, like colors of a 

shell 
That keeps the wear and polish of the 

wave. 
Why not ? it never yet was worn, I 

trow : 
Look on it, child, and tell me if you 

know it." 

And Enid look'd, but all confused at 
first, 

Could scarce divide it from her foolish 
dream : 

Then suddenly she knew it and re- 
joiced, 

And answer' d, "Yea, I know it; your 
good gift, 

So sadly lost on that unhappy night ; 

Your own good gift ! " " Yea, surely," 
said the dame, 

"And gladly given again this happy 
morn. 

For when the jousts were ended yester- 
day, 

Went Yniol thro' the town, and every- 
where 

He found the sack and plunder of our 
house 

All scatter'd thro' the houses of the 
town ; 

And gave command that all which once 
was ours, 

Should now be ours again : and yester- 
eve, 



While you were talking sweetly with 

your Prince, 
Came one with this and laid it in my 

hand, 
For love or fear, or seeking favor of us, 
Because we have our earldom back 

again. 
And yester-eve I would not tell you 

of it, 
But kept it for a sweet surprise at 

morn. 
Yea, truly is it not a sweet surprise ? 
For I myself unwillingly have worn 
My faded suit, as you, my child, have 

yours, 
And howsoever patient, Yniol his. 
Ah, dear, he took me from a goodly 

house, 
With store of rich apparel, sumptuous 

fare, 
And page, and maid, and squire, and 

seneschal, 
And pastime both of hawk and hound, 

and all 
That appertains to noble maintenance. 
Yea, and he brought me to a goodly 

house ; 
But since our fortune slipt from sun to 

shade, 
And all thro' that young traitor, cruel 

need 
Constrain'd us, but a better time has 

come ; 
So clothe yourself in this, that better 

fits 
Our mended fortunes and a Prince's 

bride : 
For tho' you won the prize of fairest 

fair, 
And tho' I heard him call you fairest 

fair, 
Let never maiden think, however fair, 
She is not fairer in new clothes than 

old. 
And should some great court-lady say, 

the Prince 
Hath pick'd a ragged-robin from the 

hedge, 
And like a madman brought her to the 

court, 
Then were you shamed, and, worse, 

might shame the Prince 
To whom we are beholden ; but I 

know, 



250 



ENID. 



When my dear child is set forth at her 

best, 
That neither court nor country, tho' 

they sought 
Thro' all the provinces like these of 

old 
That lighted on Queen Esther, has her 

match." 

Here ceased the kindly mother out 

of breath ; 
And Enid listen'd brightening as she 

lay; 
Then, as the white and glittering star 

of morn 
Parts from a bank of snow, and by and 

by 
Slips into golden cloud, the maiden 

rose, 
And left her maiden couch, and robed 

herself, 
Help'd by the mother's careful hand 

and eye, 
Without a mirror, in the gorgeous 

gown ; 
Who, after, turn'd her daughter round, 

and said, 
She never yet had seen her half so fair ; 
And calFd her like that maiden in the 

tale, 
Whom Gwydion made by glamour out 

of flowers, 
And sweeter than the bride of Cassive- 

laun, 
Flur, for whose love the Roman Cassar 

first 
Invaded Britain, but we beat him back, 
As this great prince invaded us, and we, 
Not beat him back, but welcomed him 

with joy. 
And I can scarcely ride with you to 

court, 
For old am I, and rough the wavs and 

wild ; 
But Yniol goes, and I full oft shall 

dream 
I see my princess as I see her now, 
Clothed with my gift, and gay among 

the gay." 

But while the women thus rejoiced, 
Geraint 
Woke where he slept in the high hall, 
and call'd 



» For Enid, and when Yniol made report 
Of that good mother making Enid 

gay 
In such apparel as might well beseem 
His princess, or indeed the stately 

queen, 
He answer'd, " Earl, entreat her by 

my love, 
Albeit 1 give no reason but my wish, 
That she ride with me in her faded 

silk." 
Yniol with that hard message went ; it 

fell, 
Like flaws in summer laying lusty corn : 
For Enid, all abash'd, she knew not 

why, 
Dared not to glance at her good moth- 
er's face, 
But silently, in all obedience, 
Her mother silent too, nor helping her, 
Laid from her limbs the costly-broid- 

er'd gift, 
And robed them in her ancient suit 

again, 
And so descended. Never man re- 
joiced 
More than Geraint to greet her thus 

attired ; 
And glancing all at once as keenly at 

her, 
As careful robins eye the delver's toil, 
Made her cheek burn and either eyelid 

fall, 
But rested with her sweet face satisfied ; 
Then seeing cloud upon the mother's 

brow, 
Her by both hands he caught, and 

sweetly said : 

" O my new mother, be not wroth or 

grieved 
At your new son, for my petition to 

her. 
When late I left Caerleon, our great 

Queen, 
In words whose echo lasts, they were 

so sweet, 
Made promise, that whatever bride I 

brought, 
Herself would clothe her like the sun 

in Heaven. 
Thereafter, when I reach'd this ruin'd 

hold, 
Beholding one so bright in dark estate, 



ENID. 



251 



\ vow'd that could I gain her, our kind 

Queen, 
No hand but hers, should make your 

Enid burst 
Sunlike from cloud — and likewise 

thought perhaps, 
That service done so graciously would 

bind 
The two together ; for I wish the two 
To love each other : how should Enid 

find 
A nobler friend ? Another thought I 

had; 
I came among you here so suddenly, 
That tho' her gentle presence at the 

lists 
Might well have served for proof that 

I was loved, 
I doubted whether filial tenderness, 
Or easy nature, did not let itself 
Be moulded by your wishes for her 

weal ; 
Or whether some false sense in her 

own self 
Of my contrasting brightness, overbore 
Her fancy dwelling in this dusky hall ; 
And such a sense might make her long 

for court 
And all its dangerous glories : and I 

thought, 
That could I someway prove such force 

in her 
Link'd with such love for me, that at a 

word 
(No reason given her) she could cast 

aside 
A splendor dear to women, new to her, 
And therefore dearer ; or if not so new, 
Yet therefore tenfold dearer by the 

power 
Of intermitted custom ; then I felt 
That I could rest, a rock in ebbs and 

flows, 
Fixt on her faith. Now, therefore, I 

do rest, 
A prophet certain of my prophecy, 
That never shadow of mistrust can 

cross 
Between us. Grant me pardon for my 

thoughts : 
And for my strange petition I will make 
Amends hereafter by some gaudy-day, 
When your fair child shall wear your 

costly gift 



Beside your own warm hearth, with, on 

her knees, 
Who knows? another gift of the high 

God, 
Which, maybe, shall have learn'd to 

lisp you thanks." 

He spoke : the mother smiled, but 

half in tears, 
Then brought a mantle down and wrapt 

her in it, 
And claspt and kiss'd her, and they 

rode away. 

Now thrice that morning Guinevere 

had climb'd 
The giant tower, from whose high crest, 

they say, 
Men saw the goodly hills of Somerset, 
And white sails flying on the yellow 

sea ; 
But not to goodly hill or yellow sea 
Look'd the fair Queen, but up the vale 

of Usk, 
By the flat meadow, till she saw them 

come ; 
And then descending met them at the 

gates, 
Embraced her with all welcome as a 

friend, 
And did her honor as the Prince's 

bride. 
And clothed her for her bridals like 

the sun ; 
And all that week was old Caerleon gay, 
For by the hands of Dubric, the high 

saint, 
They twain were wedded with all cere- 
mony. 

And this was on the last year's 

Whitsuntide. 
But Enid ever kept the faded silk, 
Remembering how first he came on her, 
Drest in that dress, and how he loved 

her in it, 
And all the foolish fears about the dress, 
And all his journey toward her, as 

himself 
Had told her, and their coming to the 

court. 

And now this morning when he said 
to her, 



252 



ENID. 



"Put on your worst and meanest dress," 

she found 
And took it, and array'd herself therein. 

O purblind race of miserable men, 
How many among us at this very hour 
Do forge a life-long trouble for our- 
selves, 
By taking true for false, or false fortrue ; 
Here, thro' the feeble twilight of this 

world 
Groping, how many, until we pass and 

reach 
That other, where we see as we are 
seen ! 

So fared it with Geraint, who issuing 

forth 
That morning, when they both had got 

to horse, 
Perhaps because he loved her passion- 
ately, 
And felt that tempest brooding round 

his heart, 
Which, if he spoke at all, would break 

perforce 
Upon a head so dear in thunder, said : 
" Not at my side ! I charge you ride 

before, 
Ever a good way on before ; and this 
I charge you, on your duty as a wife, 
Whatever happens, not to speak to me, 
No, not a word !" and Enid was aghast; 
And forth they rode, but scarce three 

paces on, 
When crying out, " Effeminate as I am, 
I will not fight my way with gilded 

arms, 
All shall be iron " ; he loosed a mighty 

% purse, 
Hung at his belt, and hurl'd it toward 

the squire. 
So the last sight that Enid had of 

home 
Was all the marble threshold flashing, 

strown 
With gold and scatter'd coinage, and 

the squire 
Chafing his shoulder : then he cried 

again, 
" To the wilds ! " and Enid leading 

down the tracks 
Thro' which he bade her lead him on, 

they past 



The marches, and by bandit-haunted 

holds, 
Gray swamps and pools, waste places 

of the hern, 
And wildernesses, perilous paths, they 

rode : 
Round was their pace at first, but 

slacken'd soon : 
A stranger meeting them had surely 

thought, 
They rode so slowly and they look'd so 

pale, 
That each had suffer'd some exceeding 

wrong. 
For he was ever saying to himself, 
"O I that wasted time to tend upon 

her, 
To compass her with sweet observ- 
ances, 
To dress her beautifully and keep her 

true " — 
And there he broke the sentence in his 

heart 
Abruptly, as a man upon his tongue 
May break it, when his passion masters 

him. 
And she was ever praying the sweet 

heavens 
To save her dear lord whole from any 

wound. 
And ever in her mind she cast about 
For that unnoticed failing in herself, 
Which made him look so cloudy and 

so cold ; 
Till the great plover's human whistle 

amazed 
Her heart, and glancing round the waste 

she fear'd 
In every wavering brake an ambus- 
cade. 
Then thought again " if there be such 

in me, 
I might amend it by the grace of heaven, 
If he would only speak and tell me of 

it." 

But when, the fourth part of the day 

was gone, 
Then Enid was aware of three tall 

knights 
On horseback, wholly arm'd, behind a 

rock 
In shadow, waiting for them, caitiffs 

all; 



ENID. 



253 



And heard one crying to his fellow, 

" Look, 
Here comes "a laggard hanging down 

his head, 
Who seems no bolder than a beaten 

hound ; 
Come, we will slay him and will have 

his horse 
And armor, and his damsel shall be 

ours." 

Then Enid ponder'd in her heart, 

and said : 
" I will go back a little to my lord, 
And I will tell him all their caitiff talk ; 
For, be he wroth even to slaying me, 
Far liever by his dear hand had I die, 
Than that my lord should suffer loss or 

shame." 

Then she went back some paces of 

return, 
Met his full frown timidly firm, and 

said : 
" My lord, I saw three bandits by the 

rock 
Waiting to fall on you, and heard them 

boast 
That they would slay you, and possess 

your horse 
And armor, and your damsel should be 

theirs." 

He made a wrathful answer. " Did 

I wish 
Your warning or your silence? one 

command 
I laid upon you, not to speak to me, 
And thus you keep it ! Weil then, 

look — for now, 
Whether you wish me victory or defeat, 
Long for my life, or hunger for my death, 
Yourself shall see my vigor is not lost." 

Then Enid waited pale and sorrow- 
ful, 

And down upon him bare the bandit 
three. 

And at the midmost charging, Prince 
Geraint 

Drave the long spear a cubit thro' his 
breast 

And out beyond ; and then against his 
brace 



Of comrades, each of whom had broken 

on him 
A lance that splinter' d like an icicle, 
Swung from his brand a windy buffet 

out 
Once, twice, to right, to left, andstunn'd 

the twain 
Or slew them, and dismounting like a 

man N 
That skins the wild beast after slaying 

him, 
Stript from the three dead wolves of 

woman born 
The three gay suits of armor which 

they wore, 
And let the bodies lie, but bound the 

suits 
Of armor on their horses, each on each, 
And tied the bridle-reins of all the 

three 
Together, and said to her, " Drive 

them on 
Before you " ; and she drove them thro' 

the waste. 

He follow'd nearer: ruth began to 

work 
Against his anger in him, while he 

watch' d 
The being he loved best in all the 

world, 
With difficulty in mild obedience 
Driving them on : he fain had spoken 

to her, 
And loosed in words of sudden fire the 

wrath 
And smoulder'd wrong that burnt him 

all within ; 
But evermore it seem'd an easier thing 
At once without remorse to strike her 

dead, 
Than to cry "Halt," and to her own 

bright face 
Accuse her of the least immodesty : 
And thus tongue-tied, it made hiin 

wroth the more 
That she could speak whom his own 

ear had heard 
Call herself false : and suffering thus 

he made 
Minutes an age : but in scarce longer 

time 
Than at Caerleon the full-tided Usk, 
Before he turn to fall seaward again, 



254 



ENID. 



Pauses, did Enid, keeping watch, be- 
hold 
In the first shallow shade of a deep 

wood, 
Before a gloom of stubborn-shafted 

oaks, 
Three other horsemen waiting, wholly 

arm'd, 
Whereof one seem'd far larger than 

her lord, 
And shook her pulses, crying, " Look, 

a prize ! 
Three horses and three goodly suits of 

arms, 
And all in charge of whom ? a girl : 

set on." 
"Nay," said the second, "yonder 

comes a knight." 
The third, " A craven ! how he hangs 

his head." 
The giant answer'd merrily, " Yea, but 

one ? 
Wait here, and when he passes fall 

upon him." 

And Enid ponder'd in her heart and 
said, 

" I will abide the coming of my lord, 

And 1 will tell him all their viilany. 

My lord is weary with the fight be- 
fore, 

And they will fall upon him unawares. 

I needs must disobey him for his good ; 

How should I dare obey him to his 
harm ? 

Needs must I speak, and tho' he kill 
me for it, 

I save a life dearer to me than mine." 

And she abode his coming, and said 

to him 
With timid firmness, " Have I leave 

to speak? " 
He said, " You take it, speaking," and 

she spoke. 

" There lurk three villains yonder in 

the wood, 
And each of them is wholly arm'd, and 

one 
Is larger-limb'd than you are, and they 

say 
That they will fall upon you while you 

pass." 



To which he flung a wrathful answer 

back : 
" And if there were an hundred in the 

wood, 
And every man were larger-limb'd 

than I, 
And all at once should sally out upon 

me, 
I swear it would not ruffle me so much 
As you that not obey me. Stand aside, 
And if I fall, cleave to the better 

man." 

And Enid stood aside to wait the 

event, 
Not dare to watch the combat, only 

breathe 
Short fits of prayer, at every stroke a 

breath. 
And he, she dreaded most, bare down 

upon him. 
Aim'd at the helm, his lance err'd ; but 

Geraint's, 
A little in the late encounter strain 'd, 
Struck thro' the bulky bandit's corselet 

home, 
And then brake short, and down his 

enemy roll'd 
And there lay still ; as he that tells the 

tale, 
Saw once a great piece of a promontory, 
That had a sapling growing on it, slip 
From the long shore-cliff's windy walls 

to the beach, 
And there lie still, and yet the sapling 

grew : 
So lay the man transfixt. His craven 

pair 
Of comrades, making slowlier at the 

Prince, 
When now they saw their bulwark 

fallen, stood ; 
On whom the victor, to confound them 

more, 
Spurr'd with his terrible war-cry ; for 

as one, 
That listens near a torrent mountain- 
brook, 
All thro' the crash of the near cataract 

hears 
The drumming thunder of the huger 

fall 
At distance, were the soldiers wont to 

hear 



ENID. 



255 



His voice in battle, and be kindled 

by it, 
And foemen scared, like that false pair 

who turn'd 
Flying, but, overtaken, died the death 
Themselves had wrought on many an 

innocent. 

Thereon Geraint, dismounting, pick'd 

the lance 
That pleased him best, and drew from 

those dead wolves 
Their three gay suits of armor, each 

from each, 
And bound them on their horses, each 

on each, 
And tied the bridle-reins of all the three' 
Together, and said to her, " Drive 

them on 
Before you," and she drove them thro' 

the wood. 

He follow' d nearer still : the pain 

she had 
To keep them in the wild ways of the 

wood, 
Two sets of three laden with jingling 

arms, 
Together, served a little to disedge 
The sharpness of that pain about her 

heart : 
And they themselves, like creatures 

gently born 
But into bad hands fall'n, and now so 

long 
By bandits groom'd, prick'd their light 

ears, and felt 
Her low firm voice and tender govern- 
ment. 

So thro' the green gloom of the wood 

they past, 
And issuing under open heavens beheld 
A little town with towers, upon a rock, 
And close beneath, a meadow gemlike 

chased 
In the brown wild, and mowers mowing 

in it : 
And down a rocky pathway from the 

place 
There came a fair-hair' d youth, that in 

his hand 
Bare victual for the mowers : and 

Geraint 



Had ruth again on Enid looking pale : 
Then, moving downward to the meadow 

ground, 
He, when the fair-hair'd youth came 

by him, said, 
" Friend, let her eat ; the damsel is so 

faint." 
"Yea, willingly," replied the youth; 

" and you, 
My lord, eat also, tho' the fare is coarse, 
And only meet for mowers " ; then set 

down 
His basket, and dismounting on the 

sward 
They let the horses graze, and ate 

themselves. 
And Enid took a little delicately, 
Less having stomach for it than desire 
To close with her lord's pleasure ; but 

Geraint 
Ate all the mowers' victual unawares, 
And when he found all empty, was 

amazed : 
And "Boy," said he, "I have eaten 

all, but take 
A horse and arms for guerdon ; choose 

the best." 
He, reddening in extremity' of delight, 
" My lord, you overpay me fifty fold." 
"You will be all the wealthier," cried 

the Prince. 
"I take it as free gift, then," said the 

boy, 
" Not guerdon; for myself can easily, 
While your good damsel rests, return, 

and fetch 
Fresh tactual for these* mowers of our 

Earl ; 
For these are his, and all the field is his, 
And I myself am his ; and I will tell 

him 
How great a man you are : he loves to 

know 
When men of mark are in his territory : 
And he will have you to his palace here, 
And serve you costlier than with 

mowers' fare." 

Then said Geraint, " I wish no bet- 
ter fare : 
I never ate with angrier appetite 
Than when I left your mowers dinner- 

_ less. 
And into no Earl's palace will I go. 



256 



ENID. 



I know, God knows, too much of 

palaces ! 
And if he want me, let him come to 

me. 
But hire us some fair chamber for the 

night, 
And stalling for the horses, and return 
With victual for these men, and let us 

know." 

"Yea, my kind lord," said the glad 
youth, and went, 
Held his head high, and thought him- 
self a knight, 
Aad up the rocky pathway disappear'd, 
Leading the horse, and they were left 
alone. 

But when the Prince had brought his 

errant eyes 
Home from the rock, sideways he let 

them glance 
At Enid, where she droopt : his own 

false doom, 
That shadow of mistrust should never 

cross 
Betwixt them, came upon him, and he 

sigh'd ; 
Then with another humorous ruth re- 

mark'd 
The lusty mowers laboring dinnerless, 
And watch'd the sun blaze on the 

turning scythe, 
And after nodded sleepily in the heat. 
But she, remembering her old ruin'd 

hall, . 
And all the windy clamor of the daws 
About her hollow turret, pluck'd the 

grass 
There growing longest by the meadow's 

, edge, 
And into many a listless annulet, 
Now over, now beneath her marriage 

ring, 
Wove and unwove it, till the boy re- 
turn 'd 
And told them of a chamber, and they 

went ; 
Where, after saying to her, " If you 

will, 
Call for the woman of the house," to 

which 
She answer'd, "Thanks, my lord"; 

the two remain 'd 



Apart by all the chamber's width, and 

mute 
As creatures voiceless thro' the fault of 

birth, 
Or two wild men supporters of a shield, 
Painted, who stare at open space, nor 

glance 
The one at other, parted by the shield. 

On a sudden, many a voice along the 
street, 
And heel against the pavement echoing, 

burst 
Their drowse ; and either started while 

the door, 
Push'd from without, drave backward 

to the wall, 
And midmost of a rout of roisterers, 
Femininely fair and dissolutely pale, 
Her suitor in o : d years before Geraint, 
Enter' d, the wild lord of the place, 

Limours. 
He moving up with pliant courtliness, 
Greeted Geraint full face, but stealthily, 
In the mid-warmth of welcome and 

graspt hand, 
Found Enid with the corner of his eye, 
And knew her sitting sad and soli- 
tary. 
Then cried Geraint for wine and goodly 

cheer 
To feed the sudden guest, and sump- 
tuous y 
According to his fashion, bade the host 
Call in what men soever were his 

friends, 
And feast with these in honor of their 

earl ; 
" And care not for the cost ; the cost is 
mine." 

And wine and food were brought, 

and Earl Limours 
Drank till he jested with all ease, and 

told 
Free tales, and took the word and 

play'd upon it, 
And made it of two colors ; for his talk, 
When wine and free companions 

kindled him, 
Was wont to glance and sparkle like a 

gem 
Of fifty facets; thus he moved the 

Prince 



ENID. 



257 



To laughter and his comrades to ap- 
plause.. 
Then, when the Prince was merry, 

ask'd Limours, 
"Your leave, my lord, to cross the room, 

and speak 
To your good damsel there who sits 

apart 
And seems so lonely?" "My free 

leave," he said ; 
" Get her to speak : she does not speak 

to me." 
Then rose Limours and looking at his 

feet, 
Like him who tries the bridge he fears 

may fail, 
Crost and came near, lifted adoring 

eyes, 
Bow'd at her side and utter'd whisper- 

ingly : 

" Enid, the pilot star of my lone life, 
Enid my early and my only love, 
Enid the loss of whom has turn'd me 

wild — 
What chance is this ? how is it I see 

you here ? 
You are in my power at last, are in my 

power. 
Yet fear me not : I call mine own self 

wild, 
But keep a touch of sweet civility 
Here in the heart of waste and wilder- 
ness. 
I thought, but that your father came 

between, 
In former days you saw me favorably. 
And if it were so do not keep it back : 
Make me a little happier : let me know 

it: 
Owe you me nothing for a life half- 
lost? 
Yea, yea, the whole dear debt of all you 

are. 
And, Enid, you and he, I see it with 

joy — 
You sit apart, you do not speak to him, 
You come with no attendance, page or 

maid, 
To serve you — does he love you as of 

old? 
For, call it lovers' quarrels, yet I know 
Tho' men may bicker with the things 

they love, 

17 



They would not make them laughable 

in all eyes, 
Not while they loved them ; and your 

wretched dress, 
A wretched insult on you, dumbly 

speaks 
Your story, that this man loves you no 

more. 
Your beauty is no beauty to him now : 
A common chance — right well I know 

it — pall'd — 
For I know men : nor will you win him 

back, 
For the man's love once gone never 

returns. 
But here is one who loves you as of old ; 
With more exceeding passion than of 

old : 
Good, speak the word : my followers 

ring him round : 
He sits unarm'd ; I hold a finger up ; 
They understand : no ; I do not mean 

blood : 
Nor need you look so scared at what I 

say: 
My malice is no deeper than a moat, 
No stronger than a wall : there is the 

keep ; 
He shall not cross us more ; speak but 

the word : 
Or speak it not ; but then by Him that 

made me 
The one true lover which you ever had, 
I will make use of all the power I have. 
O pardon me ! the madness of that 

hour, 
When first I parted from you, moves 

me yet." 

At this the tender sound of his own 

voice 
And sweet self-pity, or the fancy of it, 
Made his eye moist ; but Enid fear'd 

his eyes, 
Moist as they were, wine-heated from 

the feast ; 
And answer'd with such craft as women 

use, 
Guilty or guiltless, to stave off a chance 
That breaks upon them perilously, and 

said: 

" Earl, if you love me as in former 
years, 



2 5 8. 



ENID. 



And do not practise on me, come with 
morn, 

And snatch me from him as by vio- 
lence ; 

Leave me to-night : I am weary to the 
death." 

Low at leave-taking, with his bran- 
dish'd plume 

Brushing his instep, bow'd the all- 
amorous Earl, 

And the stout Prince bade him a loud 
good-night. 

He moving homeward babbled to his 
men, 

How Enid never loved a man but 
him, 

Nor cared a broken egg-shell for her 
lord. 

But Enid left alone with Prince Ge- 
raint. 

Debating his command of silence given, 

And that she now perforce must vio- 
late it, 

Held commune with herself, and while 
she held 

He fell asleep, and Enid had no heart 

To wake him, but hung o'er him, 
wholly pleased 

To find him yet unwounded after fight, 

And near him breathing low and equal- 
ly- 

Anon she rose, and stepping lightly, 
heap'd 

The pieces of his armor in one place, 

All to be there against a sudden need ; 

Then dozed awhile herself, but over- 
toils 

By that day's grief and travel, ever- 
more 

Seem'd catching at a rootless thorn, 
and then 

Went slipping down horrible preci- 
pices, 

And strongly striking out her limbs 
awoke ; 

Then thought she heard the wild Earl 
at the door, 

With all his rout of random followers, 

Sound on a dreadful trumpet, summon- 
ing her ; 

Which was the red cock shouting to 
the light, 



As the gray dawn stole o'er the dewy 

world, 
And glimmer'd on his armor in the 

room. 
And once again she rose to look at it, 
But touch' d it unawares : jangling, the 

casque 
Fell, and he started up and stared at 

her. 
Then breaking his command of silence 

given, 
She told him all that Earl Limours had 

said, 
Except the passage that he loved her 

not ; 
Nor left untold the craft herself had 

used ; 
But ended with apology so sweet, 
Low-spoken, and of so few words, and 

seem'd 
So justified by that necessity, 
That tho' he thought " was it for him 

she wept 
In Devon?" he but gave a wrathful 

groan, 
Saying "your sweet faces make good 

fellows fools 
And traitors. Call the host and bid 

him bring 
Charger and palfrey." So she glided 

out 
Among the heavy breathings of the 

house, 
And like a household Spirit at the 

walls 
Beat, till she woke the sleepers, and 

retum'd : 
Then tending her rough lord, tho' all 

unask'd, 
In silence, did him service as a squire ; 
Till issuing arm'd he found the host 

and cried, 
"Thy reckoning, friend?" and ere he 

learnt it, " Take 
Five horses and their armors " ; and 

the host, 
Suddenly honest, answer'd in amaze, 
"My lord, I scarce have spent the 

worth of one ! " 
" You will be all the wealthier," said 

the Prince, 
And then to Enid, " Forward I and 

to-day 
I charge you, Enid, more especially, 



ENID. 



259 



What thing soever you may hear, or 

see, 
Or fancy (tho' I count it of small use 
To charge you) that you speak not but 

obey." 

And Enid answer'd, " Yea, my lord, 

I know 
Your wish, and would obey ; but riding 

first, 
I hear the violent threats you do not 

hear, 
I see the danger which you cannot 

see : 
Then not to give you warning, that 

. seems hard ; 
Almost beyond me : yet I would obey." 

"Yea so," said he, "do it: be not 

too wise ; 
Seeing that you are wedded to a man, 
Not quite mismated with a yawning 

clown, 
But one with arms to guard his head 

and yours, 
With eyes to find you out however far, 
And ears to hear you even in his 

dreams." 

With that he turn'd and look'd as 
keenly at her 

As careful robins eye the delver's toil ; 

And that within her, which a wanton 
fool, 

Or hasty judger would have call'd her 
guilt, 

Made her cheek burn and either eyelid 
fall. 

And Geraint look'd and was not satis- 
fied. 

Then forward by a way which, beat- 
en broad, 

Led from the territory of false Limours 

To the waste earldom of another earl, 

Doorm, whom his shaking vassals call'd 
the Bull, 

Went Enid with her sullen follower on. 

Once she look'd back, and when she 
saw him ride 

More near by many a rood than yester- 
morn, 

[t wellnigh made her cheerful; till 
Geraint 



Waving an angry hand as who should 

say 
"You watch me," sadden' d all her 

heart again. 
But while the sun yet beat a dewy 

blade, 
The sound of many a heavily-galloping 

hoof 
Smote on her ear, and turning round 

she saw 
Dust, and the points of lances bicker 

in it. 
Then not to disobey her lord's behest, 
And yet to give him warning, for he 

rode 
As if he heard not, moving back she 

held 
Her finger up, and pointed to the dust. 
At which the warrior in his obstinacy, 
Because she kept the letter of his word 
Was in a manner pleased, and turning, 

stood. 
And in the moment after, wild Limours, 
Borne on a black horse, like a thunder- 
cloud 
Whose skirts are loosen 'd by the break- 
ing storm, 
Half ridden off with by the thing he 

rode, 
And all in passion uttering a dry shriek, 
Dash'd on Geraint, who closed with 

him, and bore 
Down by the length of lance and arm 

beyond 
The crupper, and so left him stunn'd 

or dead, 
And overthrew the next that follow'd 

him, 
And blindly rush'd on all the rout be- 
hind. 
But at the flash and motion of the man 
They vanish'd panic-stricken, like a 

shoal 
Of darting fish, that on a summer morn 
Ad own the crystal dikes at Camel ot 
'Come slipping o'er their shadows on 

the sand, 
But if a man who stands upon the brink 
But lift a shining hand against the sun, 
There is not left the twinkle of a fin 
Betwixt the cressy islets white in 

flower ; 
So, scared but at the motion of the 

man, 



2 6o 



ENID. 



Fled all the boon companions of the 

Earl, 
And left him lying in the public way ; 
So vanish friendships only made in 

wine. 

Then like a stormy sunlight smiled 

Geraint, 
Who saw the chargers of the two that 

fell 
Start from their fallen lords, and wildly 

fly, 
Mixt with the flyers. " Horse and 

man," he said, 
All of one mind and all right-honest 

friends ! 
Not a hoof left : and I methinks till 

now 
Was honest — paid with horses and 

with arms ; 
I cannot steal or plunder, no nor beg : 
And so what say you, shall we stnp 

him there 
Your lover? has your palfrey heart 

enough 
To bear his armor? shall we fast, or 

dine? 
No ? — then do you, being right honest, 
__ P^y 
That we may meet the horsemen of 

Earl Doorm, 
I too would still be honest." Thus he 

said : 
And sadly gazing on her bridle-reins, 
And answering not one word, she led 

the way. 

But as a man to whom a dreadful loss 
Falls in a far land and he knows it 

not, 
But coming back he learns it, and the 

loss 
So pains him that he sickens nigh to 

• death; 
So fared it with Geraint, who being 

prick' d 
In combat with the follower of Limours, 
Bled underneath his armor secretly, 
And so rode on, nor told his gentle wife 
What ail'd him, hardly knowing it him- 
self, 
Till his eye darken' d and his helmet 

wagg'd ; 
And at a sudden swerving of the road, 



Tho' happily down on a bank of grass, 
The Prince, without a word, from his 
horse fell. 

And Enid heard the clashing of his 

fall, 
Suddenly came, and at his side all pale 
Dismounting, loosed the fastenings of 

his arms, 
Nor let her true hand falter, nor blue 

eye 
Moisten, till she had lighted on his 

wound, 
And tearing off her veil of faded silk 
Had bared her forehead to the blister- 
ing sun, 
And swathed the hurt that drain 'd her 

dear lord's life. 
Then after all was done that hand 

could do, 
She rested, and her desolation came 
Upon her, and she wept beside the 

way. 

And many past, but none regarded 

her, 
For in that realm of lawless turbulence, 
A woman weeping for her murder'd 

mate 
Was cared as much for as a summer 

shower : 
One took him for a victim of Earl 

Doorm, 
Nor dared to waste a perilous pity on 

him : 
Another hurrying past, a man-at-arms, 
Rode on a mission to the bandit Earl ; 
Half whistling and half singing a coarse 

song, 
He drove the dust against her veilless 

eyes : 
Another, flying from the wrath of Doorm 
Before an ever-fancied arrow, made 
The long way smoke beneath him in 

his fear ; 
At which her palfrey whinnying lifted 

heel, 
And scour'd into the coppices and was 

lost, 
While the great charger stood, grieved 

like a man. 

But at the point of noon the huge 
Earl Doorm, 



ENID. 



261 



Broad-feced with under-fringe of russet 

beard, 
Bound on a foray, rolling eyes of. prey, 
Came riding with a hundred lances up ; 
But ere he came, like one that hails a 

ship, 
Cried out with a big voice, " What, is 

he dead?" 
" No, no, not dead ! " she answer'd in 

all haste. 
" Wou'd some of your kind people take 

him up, 
And bear him hence out of this cruel 

sun : 
Most sure am I, quite sure, he is not 

dead." 

Then said Earl Doorm : " Well, if 

he be not dead, 
Why wail you for him thus ? you seem 

a child. 
And be he dead, I count you for a fool ; 
Your wailing will not quicken him : 

dead or not, 
You mar a comely face with idiot tears. 
Yet, since the face is comely — some of 

you, 
Here, take him up, and bear him to 

our hall : 
An if he live, we will have him of our 

band ; 
And if he die, why earth has earth 

enough 
To hide him. See ye take the charger 

too, 
A noble one. " 

He spake, and past away, 
But left two brawny spearmen, who 

advanced, 
Each growling like a dog, when his 

good bone 
Seems to be pluck' d at by the village 

boys 
Who love to vex him eating, and he 

fears 
To lose his bone, and lays his foot 

upon it, 
Gnawing and growling : so the ruffians 

growl' d. 
Fearing to lose, and all for a dead man, 
Their chance of booty from the morn- 
ing's raid ; 
Yet raised and laid him on a litter- 
bier, 



Such as they brought upon their forays 

out 
For those that might be wounded ; laid 

him on it 
All in the hollow of his shield, and 

took 
And bore him to the naked hall of 

Doorm, 
( His gentle charger following him 

unled ) 
And cast him and the bier in which he 

lay 
Down on an oaken settle in the hall, 
And then departed, hot in haste to 

join 
Their luckier mates, but growling as 

before, 
And cursing their lost time, and the 

dead man, 
And their own Earl, and their own 

souls, and her. 
They might as well have blest her : she 

was deaf 
To blessing or to cursing save from one. 

So for long hours sat Enid by her lord, 
There in the naked hall, propping his 

head, 
And chafing his pale hands, and calling 

to him. 
And at the last he waken'd from his 

swoon. 
And found his own dear bride propping 

his head, 
And chafing his faint hands, and calling 

to him ; 
And felt the warm tears falling on his 

face ; 
And said to his own heart, " She weeps 

for me " : 
And yet lay still, and feign' d himself 

as dead, 
That he might prove her to the utter- 
most, 
And say to his own heart, " She weeps 

for me." 

But in the falling afternoon return'd 
The huge Earl Doorm with plunder to 

the hall. 
His lusty spearmen follow'd him with 

noise : 
Each hurling down a heap of things 

that rang 



262 



ENID. 



Against the pavement, cast his lance 

aside, 
And doff d his helm : and then there 

flutter'd in, 
Half-bold, half-frighted, with dilated 

eyes, 
A tribe of women, dress'd in many hues, 
And mingled with the spearmen : and 

Earl Doorm 
Struck with a knife's haft hard against 

the board, 
And call'd for flesh and wine to feed 

his spears. 
And men brought in whole hogs and 

quarter beeves, 
And all the hall was dim with steam 

of flesh : 
And none spake word, but all sat down 

at once, 
And ate with tumult in the naked hall, 
Feeding like horses when you hear 

them feed ; 
Till Enid shrank far back into herself, 
To shun the wild ways of the lawless 

tribe. 
But when Earl Doorm had eaten all he 

would, 
He roll'd his eyes about the hall, and 

found 
A damsel drooping in a corner of it. 
Then he remember'd her, and how she 

wept; 
And out of her there came a power 

upon him : 
And rising on the sudden he said, " Eat ! 
I never yet beheld a thing so pale. 
God's curse, it makes me mad to see 

you weep. 
Eat ! Look yourself. Good luck had 

your good man, _ : 
For were I dead who is it would weep 

for me ? 
Sweet lady, never since I first drew 

breath, 
Have I beheld a lily like yourself. 
And so there lived some color in your 

cheek, 
There is not one among my gentle- 
women 
Were fit to wear your slipper for a 

glove. 
But listen to me, and by me be ruled, 
And I will do the thing I have not 

done, 



For you shall share my earldom with 

me, girl, 
And we will live like two birds in one 

nest, 
And I will fetch you forage from all 

fields, 
For I compel all creatures to my will." 

He spoke : the brawny spearman let 
his cheek 

Bulge with the unswallow'd piece, and 
turning stared ; 

While some, whose souls the old ser- 
pent long had drawn 

Down, as the worm draws in the 
wither'd leaf 

And makes it earth, hiss'd each at 
other's ear 

What shall not be recorded — women 
they, 

Women, or what had been those gra- 
cious things, 

But now desired the humbling of their 
best, 

Yea, would have helped him to it : and 
all at once 

They hated her, who took no thought 
of them, 

But answer'd in low voice, her meek 
head yet 

Drooping, " I pray you of your cour- 
tesy, 

He being as he is, to let me be." 

She spake so low he hardly heard her 
speak, 

But like a mighty patron, satisfied 

With what himself had done so gra- 
ciously, 

Assumed that she had thanked him, 
adding, " Yea, 

Eat and be glad, for I account you 
mine." 

She answer'd meekly, " How should 
I be glad 

Henceforth in all the world at any- 
thing, 

Until my lord arise and look upon me?" 

Here the huge Earl cried out upon 

her talk, 
As all but empty heart and weariness 
And sickly nothing ; suddenly seized 

on her, 



ENID. 



263 



And bare her by main violence to the 

board, 
And thrust the dish before her, crying, 

"Eat." v 

" No, no," said Enid, vext, " I will 

not eat, 
Till yonder man upon the bier arise, 
And eat with me." "Drink, then," 

he answer'd. " Here !" 
( And fill'd a horn with wine and held 

it to her, ) 
" Lo ! I, myself, when flush'd with fight, 

or hot, 
God's curse, with anger — often I my- 
self, 
Before I well have drunken, scarce can 

eat : 
Drink therefore, and the wine will 

change your will." 

"Not so," she cried, "by Heaven, 

I will not drink, 
Till my dear lord arise and bid me do it, 
And drink with me ; and if he rise no 

more, 
I will not look at wine until I die." 

At this he turn'd all red and paced 

his hall, 
Now gnaw'd his under, now his 
upper lip, 

And coming up close to her, said at 
last : 

" Girl, for I see you scorn my cour- 
tesies, 

Take warning : yonder man is surely 
dead ; 

And I compel all creatures to my will. 

Not eat nor drink ? And wherefore wail 
for one, 

Who put your beauty to this flout and 
scorn 

By dressing it in rags? Amazed am I, 

Beholding how you butt against my 
wish, 

That I forbear you thus : cross me no 
more. 

At least put off to please me this poor 
gown, 

This silken rag, this beggar-woman's 
weed : 

I love that beauty should go beauti- 
fully: 



For see you not my gentlewomen here, 

How gay, how suited to the house of 
one, 

Who loves that beauty should go beau- 
tifully ! 

Rise therefore ; robe yourself in this : 
obey." 

He spoke, and one among his gentle- 
women 
Display' d a splendid silk of foreign 

loom, 
Where like a shoaling sea the lovely 

blue 
Play'd into green, and thicker down 

the front 
With jewels than the sward with drops 

of dew, 
When all night long a cloud clings to 

the hill, 
And with the dawn ascending lets the 

day 
Strike where it clung : so thickly shone 

the gems. 

But Enid answer'd, harder to be 
moved 

Than hardest tyrants in their day of 
power, 

With life-long injuries burning una- 
venged, 

And now their hour has come ; and 
Enid said : 

" In this poor gown my dear lord 

found me first, 
And loved me serving in my father's 

hall: 
In this poor gown I rode with him to 

court, 
And there the Queen array'd me like 

the sun : 
In this poor gown he bade me clothe 

myself, 
When now we rode upon this fatal 

quest 
Of honor, where no honor can be 

gain'd : 
And this poor gown I will not cast 

aside 
Until himself arise a living man, 
And bid me cast it. I have griefs 

enough : 
Pray you be gentle, pray you let me be : 



264 



ENID. 



I never loved, can never love but him : 
Yea, God, I pray you of your gentle- 
ness, 
He being as he is, to let me be." 

Then strode the brute Earl up and 

down his hall, 
And took his russet beard between his 

teeth ; 
Last, coming up quite close, and in 

his mood 
Crying, " I count it of no more avail, 
Dame, to be gentle than ungentle with 

you ; 
Take my salute," unknightly with flat 

hand. 
However lightly, smote her on the 

cheek. 
Then Enid, in her utter helplessness, 
And since she thought, " he had not 

dared to do it, 
Except he surely knew my lord was 

dead," 
Sent forth a sudden sharp and bitter 

cry, 
As of a wild thing taken in the trap, 
Which sees the trapper coming thro' 

the wood. 

V 
This heard Geraint, and grasping at 

his sword, 
(It lay beside him in the hollow shield), 
Made but a single bound, and with a 

sweep of it 
Shore thro' the swarthy neck, and like 

a ball 
The russet-bearded head roll'd on the 

floor. 
So died Earl Doorm by him he count- 
ed dead. , 
And all the men and women in the hall 
Rose when they saw the dead man 

rise, and fled 
Yelling as from a spectre, and the two 
Were left alone together, and he said : 

" Enid, I have used you worse than 

that dead man ; 
Done you more wrong : we both have 

undergone 
That trouble which has left me thrice 

your own : 
Henceforward I will rather die than 

doubt. 



And here I lay this penance on myself, 
Not, tho' mine own ears heard you 

yester-morn — 
You thought me sleeping, but I heard 

you say, 
I heard you say, that you were no true 

wife : 
I swear I will not ask your meaning in 

it: 
I do believe yourself against yourself, 
And wiil henceforward rather die than 

doubt." 

And Enid could not say one tender 

word, 
She felt so blunt and stupid at the 

heart : 
She only prayed him, " Fly, they will 

return 
And slay you ; fly, your charger is 

without, 
My palfrey lost." " Then, Enid, shall 

you ride 
Behind me." "Yea," said Enid, "let 

us go." 
And moving out they found the stately 

horse, 
Who now no more a vassal to the 

thief, 
But free to stretch his limbs in lawful 

fight, 
Neigh'd with all gladness as they came, 

and stoop'd 
With a low whinny toward the pair : 

and she 
Kiss'd the white star upon his noble 

front, 
Glad also ; then Geraint upon the 

horse 
Mounted, and reach'd a hand, and on 

his foot 
She set her own and climb'd ; he turn'd 

his face 
And kiss'd her climbing, and she cast 

her arms 
About him, and at once they rode 

away. 

And never yet, since high in Para- 
dise 
O'er the four rivers the first roses blew, 
Came purer pleasure unto mortal kind 
Than lived thro' her, who in that peril- 
ous hour 



ENID. 



265 



Put hand ta hand beneath her hus- 
band's heart, 
And felt him hers again : she did not 

weep, 
But o'er her meek eyes came a happy 

mist 
Like that which kept the heart of Eden 

green ' 

Before the useful trouble of the rain : 
Yet not so misty were her meek blue 

eyes 
As not to see before them on the path, 
Right in the gateway of the bandit 

hold, 
A knight of Arthur's court, who laid 

his lance 
In rest, and made as if to fall upon him. 
Then, fearing for his hurt 'and loss of 

blood, 
She, with her mind all full of what had 

chanced, 
Shriek' d to the stranger, " Slay not a 

dead man ! " 
" The voice of Enid," said the knight ; 

but she, 
Beholding it was Edyrn son of Nudd, 
Was moved so much the more, and 

shriek'd again, 
" O cousin, slay not him who gave you 

life." 
And Edyrn moving frankly forward 

spake : 
" My lord Geraint, I greet you with 

all love ; 
I took you for a bandit knight of 

Doorm ; 
And fear not, Enid, I should fall upon 

him, 
Who love you, Prince, with something 

of the love 
Wherewith we love the Heaven that 

chastens us. 
For once, when I was up so high in 

pride 
That I was half way down the slope to 

Hell, 
By overthrowing me you threw me 

higher. 
Now, made a knight of Arthur's Table 

Round, 
And since I knew this Earl, when I 

myself 
Was half a bandit in my lawless 

hour, 



I come the mouthpiece of our King to 

Doorm 
(The King is close behind me) bidding 

him 
Disband himself, and scatter all his 

powers, 
Submit, and hear the judgment of the 

King." 

" He hears the judgment of the King 

of Kings," 
Cried the wan Prince ; ' ' and lo the 

powers of Doorm 
Are scatter'd," and he pointed to the 

field, 
Where, huddled here and there on 

mound and knoll, 
Were men and women staring and 

aghast, 
While some yet fled ; and then he 

plainlier told 
How the huge Earl lay slain within his 

hall. 
But when the knight besought him, 

" Follow me, 
Prince, to the camp, and in the King's 

own ear 
Speak what has chanced; you surely 

have endured 
Strange chances here alone " ; that 

other flush' d, 
And hung his head, and halted in 

reply, 
Fearing the mild face of the blameless 

King, 
And after madness acted question 

ask'd : 
Till Edyrn crying, " If you will not go 
To Arthur, then will Arthur come to 

you," 
"Enough," he said, "I follow," and 

they went. 
But Enid in their going had two fears, 
One from the bandit scatter'd in the 

field, 
And one from Edyrn. Every now and 

then, 
When Edyrn rein'd his charger at her 

side, 
She shrank a little. In a hollow land, 
From which old fires have broken, men 

may fear 
Fresh fire and ruin. He, perceiving, 

said : 



266 



ENID. 



" Fair and dear cousin, you that most 

had cause 
To fear me, fear no longer, I am 

changed. 
Yourself were first the blameless cause 

to make 
My nature's prideful sparkle in the 

blood 
Break into furious flame ; being re- 
pulsed 
By Yniol and yourself, I schemed and 

wrought 
Until I overturn'd him ; then set up 
(With one main purpose ever at my 

heart) 
My haughty jousts, and took a para- 
mour ; 
Did her mock-honor as the fairest fair, 
And, toppling over all antagonism, 
So wax'd in pride, that I believed my- 
self 
Unconquerable, for I waswellnigh mad : 
And, but for my main purpose in these 

jousts, 
I should have slain your father, seized 

yourself. 
I lived in hope that some time you 

would come 
To these my lists with him whom best 

you loved ; 
And there, poor cousin, with your 

meek blue eyes, 
The truest eyes that ever answer' d 

heaven, 
Behold me overturn and trample on 

him. 
Then, had you cried, or knelt, orpray'd 

to me, 
I should not less have kilPd him. And 

you came, — 
But once you came, — and with your 

own true eyes 
Beheld the man you loved (I speak as 

one 
Speaks of a service done him) over- 
throw 
My proud self, and my purpose three 

years old, 
And set his foot upon me, and give me 

life. 
There was I broken down ; there was 

I saved : 
Tho' thence I rode all- shamed, hating 

the life 



He gave me, meaning to be rid of it. 
And all the penance the Queen laid 

upon me 
Was but to rest awhile within her 

court ; 
Where first as sullen as a beast new- 
caged, 
And waiting to be treated like a wolf, 
Because I knew my deeds were known, 

I found, 
Instead of scornful pity or pure scorn, 
Such fine reserve and noble reticence, 
Manners so kind, yet stately, such a 

grace 
Of tenderest courtesy, that I began 
To glance behind me at my former life, 
And find that it had been the wolf's 

indeed : 
And oft I talk'd with Dubric, the high 

saint, 
Who, with mild heat of holy oratory, 
Subdued me somewhat to that gentle- 
ness, 
Which, when it weds with manhood, 

makes a man. 
And you were often there about the 

Queen, 
But saw me not, or mark'd not if you 

saw; 
Nor did I care or dare to speak with 

you, 
But kept myself aloof till I was changed; 
And fear not, cousin; I am changed 

indeed." 

He spoke, and Enid easily believed, 
Like simple noble natures, credulous 
Of what they long for, good in friend 

or foe, 
There most in those who most have 

done them ill. 
And when they reach'd the camp the 

King himself 
Advanced to greet them, and behold- 
ing her 
Tho' pale, yet happy, ask'd her not a 

word, 
But went apart with Edyrn, whom he 

held 
In converse for a little, and return'd, 
And, gravely smiling, lifted her from 

horse, 
And kiss'd her with all pureness, 

brother-like, 



ENID. 



267 



And show'd an empty tent allotted her, 
And glancing for a minute, till he saw 

her 
Pass into it, turn'd to the Prince, and 

said: 

" Prince, when of late you pray' d me 

for my leave 
To move to your own land, and there 

defend 
Your marches, I was prick' d with some 

reproof, 
As one that let foul wrong stagnate 

and be, 
By having look'd too much thro' alien 

eyes, 
And wrought too long with delegated 

hands, 
Not used mine own : but now behold 

me come 
To cleanse this common sewer of all 

my realm, 
With Edyrn and with others : have 

you look'd 
At Edyrn? have you seen how nobly 

changed ? 
This work of his is great and wonderful. 
His very face with change of heart is 

changed. 
The world will not believe a man re- 
pents : 
And this wise world of ours is mainly 

right. 
Full seldom does a man repent, or use 
Both grace and will to pick the vicious 

quitch 
Of blood and custom wholly out of him, 
And make all clean, and plant himself 

afresh. 
Edyrn has done it, weeding all his heart 
As I will weed this land before I go. 
I, therefore, made him of our Table 

Round, 
Not rashly, but have proved him every 

way 
One of our noblest, our most valorous, 
Sanest and most obedient : and indeed 
This work of Edyrn wrought upon 

himself 
After a life of violence, seems to me 
A thousand-fold more great and won- 
derful 
Than if some knight of mine, risking 

his life, 



My subject with my subjects under him, 
Should make an onslaught single on a 

realm 
Of robbers, tho' he slew them one by 

one, 
And were himself nigh wounded to the 

death." 

So spake the King ; low bow'd the 

Prince, and felt 
His work was neither great nor won- 
derful, 
And past to Enid's tent ; and thither 

came 
The King's own leech to look into his 

hurt ; 
And Enid tended on him there ; and 

there 
Her constant motion round him, and 

the breath 
Of her sweet tendance hovering over 

• him, 
Fill'd all the genial courses of his blood 
With deeper and with ever deeper love, 
As the south-west that blowing Bala 

lake 
Fills all the sacred Dee. So past the 

days. 

But while Geraint lay healing of his 
hurt, 

The blameless King went forth and 
cast his eyes 

On whom his father Uther left in charge 

Long since, to guard the justice of the 
King : 

He look'd and found them wanting ; 
and as now 

Men weed the white horse on the Berk- 
shire hills 

To keep him bright and clean as here- 
tofore, 

He rooted out the slothful officer 

Or guilty, which for bribe had wink'd 
at wrong, 

And in their chairs set up a stronger race 

With hearts and hands, and sent a 
thousand men 

To till the wastes, and moving every- 
where 

Clear'd the dark places and let in the 
law, 

And broke the bandit holds and 
cleansed the land. 



268 



VIVIEN. 



Then, when Geraint was whole again, 

they past 
With Arthur to Caerleon upon Usk. 
There the great Queen once more em- 
braced her friend, 
And clothed her in apparel like the day. 
And tho' Geraint could never take 

again 
That comfort from their converse which 

he took 
Before the Queen's fair name was 

breathed upon, 
He rested well content that all was well. 
Thence after tarrying for a space they 

rode, 
And fifty knights rode with them to the 

shores 
Of Severn, and they past to their own 

land. 
And there he kept the justice of the 

King 
So vigorously yet mildly, that all hearts 
Applauded, and the spiteful whisper 

died : 
And being ever foremost in the chase, 
And victor at the tilt and tournament, 
They call'd him the great Prince and 

man of men. 
But Enid, whom her ladies loved to call 
Enid the Fair, a grateful people named 
Enid the Good ; and in their halls arose 
The cry of children, Enids and Geraints 
Of times to be ; nor did he doubt her 

more 
But rested in her fealty, till he crown' d 
A happy life with a fair death, and fell 
Against the heathen of the Northern 

Sea 
In battle, fighting for the blameless 

King. 



VIVIEN. 

A storm was coming, but the winds 
were still, 
And in the wild woods of Broceliande, 
Before an oak, so hollow huge and old 
It look'd a tower of ruin'd masonwork, 
At Merlin's feet the wily Vivien lay. 

The wily Vivien stole from Arthur's 
court : 



She hated all the knights, and heard m 

thought 
Their lavish comment when her name 

was named. 
For once, when Arthur walking all 

alone, 
Vext at a rumor rife about the Queen, 
Had met her, Vivien, being greeted 

fair, 
Would fain have wrought upon his 

cloudy mood 
With reverent eyes mock-loyal, shaken 

voice, 
And fiutter'd adoration, and at last 
With dark sweet hints of some who 

prized him more 
Than who should prize him most ; at 

which the King 
Had gazed upon her blankly and gone 

by: 
But one had watch'd, and had not held 

his peace : 
It made the laughter of an afternoon 
That Vivien should attempt the blame- 
less King. 
And after that, she set herself to gain 
Him, the most famous man of all those 

times, 
Merlin, who knew the range of all their 

arts, 
Had built the King his havens, ships, 

and halls, 
Was also Bard, and knew the starry 

heavens ; 
The people called him Wizard ; whom 

at first 
She play'd about with slight and 

sprightly talk, 
And vivid smiles, and faintly-venom'd 

points 
Of slander, glancing here and grazing 

there ; 
And yielding to his kindlier moods, the 

Seer 
Would watch her at her petulance, and 

play, 
Ev'n when they seem'd unlovable, 

and laugh 
As those that watch a kitten ; thus he 

grew 
Tolerant of what he half disdain 'd, and 

she, 
Perceiving that she was but half dis- 

dain'd, 



VIVIEN. 



269 



Began to break her sports with graver 

fits, 
Turn red or pale, would often when 

they met 
Sigh fully, or all-silent gaze upon him 
With such a fixt devotion, that the old 

man, 
Tho' doubtful, felt the flattery, and at 

times 
Would flatter his own wish in age for 

love, 
And half believe her true : for thus at 

times 
He waver'd ; but that other clung to 

him, 
Fixt in her will, and so the seasons went. 
Then fell upon him a great melancholy ; 
And leaving Arthur's court he gain'd 

the beach ; 
There found a little boat, and stept 

into it ; 
And Vivien follow'd, but he mark'd 

her not. 
She took the helm and he the sail ; the 

boat 
Drave with a sudden wind across the 

deeps, 
And touching Breton sands, they dis- 

embark'd. 
And then she follow'd Merlin all the 

way, 
Ev'n to the wild woods of Broceliande. 
For Merlin once had told her of a charm, 
The which if any wrought on any one 
With woven paces and with waving 

arms, 
The man so wrought on ever seem'd 

to lie 
Closed in the four walls of a hollow 

tower, 
From which was no escape forever- 
more ; 
And none could find that man forever- 
more, 
Nor could he see but him who wrought 

the charm 
Coming and going, and he lay as dead 
And lost to life and use and name and 

fame. 
And Vivien ever sought to work the 

charm 
Upon the great Enchanter of the Time, 
As fancying that her glory would be 

great 



According to his greatness whom she 
quench'd. 

There lay she all her length and 

kiss'd his feet, 
As if in deepest reverence and in love. 
A twist of gold was round her hair ; a 

robe 
Of samite without price, that more 

exprest 
Than hid her, clung about her lissome 

limbs, 
In color like the satin-shining palm 
On sallows in the windy gleams of 

March : 
And while she kiss'd them, crying, 

" Trample me, 
Dear feet, that I have follow'd thro' 

the world, 
And I will pay you worship ; tread me 

down 
And Iwillkissyouforit"; he was mute: 
So dark a forethought roll'd about his 

brain, 
As on a dull day in an Ocean cave 
The blind wave feeling round his long 

sea-hall 
In silence*: wherefore, when she lifted up 
A face of sad appeal, and spake and 

said, 
"O Merlin, do you love me?" and 

again, 
" O Merlin, do you love me ? " and 

once more, 
" Great Master, do you love me? " he 

was mute. 
And lissome Vivien, holding by his heel, 
Writhed toward him, slided up his knee 

and sat, 
Behind his ankle twined her hollow feet 
Together, curved an arm about his 

neck, 
Clung li.<e a snake ; and letting her 

left hand 
Droop from his mighty shoulder, as a 

leaf, 
Made with her right a comb of pearl 

to part 
The lists of such a beard as youth gone 

out 
Had left in ashes : then he spoke and 

said, 
Not looking at her, " Who are wise in 

love 



270 



VIVIEN. 



Love most, say least," and Vivien 

answer' d quick, 
" I saw the little elf-god eyeless once 
In Arthur's arras hall at Camelot : 
But neither eyes nor tongue, — O stupid 

child ! 
Yet you are wise who say it ; let me 

think 
Silence is wisdom : I am silent then 
And ask no kiss " ; then adding all at 

once, 
" And lo, I clothe myself with wisdom," 

drew 
The vast and shaggy mantle of his beard 
Across her neck and bosom to her knee, 
And call'd herself a gilded summer fly 
Caught in a great old tyrant spider's 

web, 
Who meant to eat her up in that wild 

wood 
Without one word. So Vivien call'd 

herself, 
But rather seem'd a lovely baleful star 
Veil'd in gray vapor ; till he sadly 

smiled : 
''To what request for what strange 

boon," he said, 
« "Are these your pretty tricks and 

fooleries, 

Vivien, the preamble ? yet my thanks, 
For these have broken up my melan- 
choly." 

And Vivien answer'd smiling saucily, 
" What, O my Master, have you found 
your voice ? 

1 bid the stranger welcome. Thanks 

at last ! 
But yesterday you never open'd lip, 
Except indeed to drink : no cup had we : 
In mine own lady palms 1 cull'd the 

spring 
That gather'd trickling dropwise from 

the cleft, 
And made a pretty cup of both my 

hands 
And offer'd you it kneeling : then you 

drank 
And knew no more, nor gave me one 

poor word ; 
O no more thanks than might a goat 

have given 
With no more sign of reverence than a 

beard. 



And when we halted at that other well, 
And I was faint to swooning, and you 

lay 
Foot-gilt with all the blossom-dust of 

those 
Deep meadows we had traversed, did 

you know 
That Vivien bathed your feet before 

her own ? 
And yet no thanks : and all thro' this 

wild wood 
And all this morning when I fondled 

you: 
Boon, yes, there was a boon, one not 

so strange — 
How had I wrong'd you ? surely you 

are wise, 
But such a silence is more wise than 

kind." 

And Merlin lock'd his hand in hers 

and said : 
" O did you never lie upon the shore, 
And watch the curl'd white of the 

coming wave 
Glass'd in the slippery sand before it 

breaks ? 
Ev'n such a wave, but not so pleas- 
urable, 
Dark in the glass of some presageful 

mood, 
Had I for three days seen, ready to fall. 
And then I rose and fled from Arthur's 

court 
To break the mood. You follow'd me 

unask'd ; 
And when I look'd, and saw you fol- 
lowing still, 
My mind involved yourself the nearest 

thing 
In that mind-mist : for shall I tell you 

truth ? 
You seem'd that wave about to break 

upon me 
And sweep me from my hold upon the 

world, 
My use and name and fame. Your 

pardon, child. 
Your pretty sports have brighten'd all 

again. 
And ask your boon, for boon I owe you 

thrice, 
Once for wrong done you by confusion, 

next 



VIVIEN. 



271 



For thanks it seems till now neglected, 
last 

For these your dainty gambols : where- 
fore ask : 

And take this boon so strange and not 
so strange." 

And Vivien answer' d, smiling mourn- 
fully : 
" O not so strange as my long asking it, 
Nor yet so strange as you yourself are 

strange, • 
Nor half so strange as that dark mood 

of yours. 
I ever fear'd you were not wholly mine ; 
And see, yourself have own'd you did 

me wrong. 
The people call you prophet : let it be : 
But not of those that can expound 

themselves. 
Take Vivien for expounder; she will 

call 
That three-days-long presageful gloom 

of yours 
No presage, but the same mistrustful 

mood 
That makes you seem less noble than 

yourself, 
Whenever I have ask'd this very 

boon, 
Now ask'd again : for see you not, dear 

love, 
That such a mood as that, which lately 

gloom'd 
Your fancy when you saw me following 

you, 
Must make me fear still more you are 

not mine, 
Must make me yearn still more to prove 

you mine, 
And make me wish still more to learn 

this charm 
Of woven paces and of waving hands, 
As proof of trust. O Merlin, teach it 

me. 
The charm so taught will charm us 

both to rest. 
For, grant me some slight power upon 

your fate. 
I, feeling that you felt me worthy trust, 
Should rest and let you rest, knowing 

you mine, 
And therefore be as great as you are 

named, 



Not muffled round with selfish reti- 
cence. 

How hard you look and how denyingly ! 

O, if you think this wickedness in me, 

That I should prove it on you un- 
awares, 

To make you lose your use and name 
and fame, 

That makes me most indignant ; then 
our bond 

Had best be loosed forever : but think 
or not, 

By Heaven that hears I tell you the 
clean truth, 

As clean as blood of babes, as white as 
milk: 

O Merlin, may this earth, if ever I, 

If these unwitty wandering wits of mine, 

Ev'n in the jumbled rubbish of a dream, 

Have tript on such conjectural treach- 
ery — 

May this hard ea»th cleave to the 
Nadir hell 

Down, down, and close again, and nip 
me flat, 

If I be such a traitress. Yield my boon, 

Till which I scarce can yield you all I 
am ; 

And grant my re-reiterated wish, 

The great proof of your love : because 
I think, 

However wise, you hardly know me 
yet." 

And Merlin loosed his hand from 

hers and said : 
" I never was less wise, however wise, 
Too curious Vivien, tho' you talk of 

trust, 
Than when I told you first of such a 

_ charm. 
Yea, if you talk of trust I tell you this, 
Too much I trusted, when I told you 

that, 
And stirr'd this vice in you which ruin'd 

man 
Thro' woman the first hour ; for how- 

soe'er 
In children a great curiousness be well, 
Who have to learn themselves and all 

the world, 
In you, that are no child, for still I find 
Your face is practised, when I spell the 

lines, 



272 



VIVIEN. 



I call it, — well, I will not call it 
vice : 

But since you name yourself the sum- 
mer fly, 

I well could wish a cobweb for the gnat, 

That settles, beaten back, and beaten 
back 

Settles, till one could yield for weari- 
ness : 

But since I will not yield to give you 
power 

Upon my life and use and name and 
fame, 

Why will you never ask some other 
boon? 

Yea, by God's rood, I trusted you too 
much»" 

And Vivien, like the tenderest- 

hearted maid 
That ever bided tryst at village stile, 
Made answer, eitiier eyelid wet with 

tears. 
" Nay, master, be not wrathful with 

your maid ; 
Caress her : let her feel herself forgiven 
Who feels no heart to ask another 

boon. 
I think you hardly know the tender 

rhyme 
Of ' trust me not at all or all in all.' 
I heard the great Sir Lancelot sing it 

once, 
And it shall answer for me. Listen to it. 

1 In Love, if Love be Love, if Love 

be ours, 
Faith and unfaith can ne'er be equal 

powers : 
Unfaith in aught is want of faith in all. 

' It is the little rift within the lute, 
That by and by will make the music 

mute, 
And ever widening slowly silence all. 

' The little rift within the lover's lute, 
Or little pitted speck in garner'd fruit, 
That rotting inward slowly moulders all. 

' It is not worth the keeping : let 

it go : 
But shall it ? answer, darling, answer, 

no. 
And trust me not at all or all in all.*"\ 



O master, do you love my tender 
rhyme?" 

And Merlin look'd and half believed 

her true, 
So tender was her voice, so fair her face, 
So sweetly gleam'd her eyes behind 

her tears 
Like sunlight on the plain behind a 

shower : 
And yet he answer'd half indignantly : 

" Far other was the song that once I 

heard 
By this huge oak, sung nearly where 

we sit : 
For here we met, some ten or twelve 

of us, 
To chase a creature that was current 

then 
In these wild woods, the hart with 

golden horns. 
It was the time when first the question 

rose 
About the founding of a Table Round, 
That was to be, for love of God and 

men 
And noble deeds, the flower of all the 

world. 
And each incited each to noble deeds. 
And while we waited, one, the youngest 

of us, 
We could not keep him silent, out he 

flash'd, 
And into such a song, such fire for fame, 
Such trumpet-blowings in it, coming 

down 
To such a stem and iron-clashing close, 
That when he stopt we long'd to hurl 

together, 
And should have done it ; but the 

beauteous beast 
Scared by the noise upstarted at our 

feet, 
And like a silver shadow slipt away 
Thro' the dim land ; and all day long 

we rode 
Thro' the dim land against a rushing 

wind, 
That glorious roundel echoing in our 

ears, 
And chased the flashes of his golden 

horns 
Until they vanish'd by the fairy well 



VIVIEN. 



273 



That laughs at iron — as our warriors 

did — 
tVhere children cast their pins and 

nails, and cry, 
Laugh little well,' but touch it with 

a sword, 
t buzzes wildly round the point ; and 

there 
Ve lost him : such a noble song was 

that. 
3ut, Vivien, when you sang me that 

sweet rhyme, 
'. felt as tho' you knew this cursed 

charm, 
iVere proving it on me, and that I 

lay 
Vnd felt them slowly ebbing, name and 

fame." 

And Vivien answer' d, smiling mourn- 
fully : 

' O mine have ebb'd away forever- 
more, 

\nd all thro' following you to this wild 
wood, 

Because I saw you sad, to comfort you. 

Lo now, what hearts have men ! they' 
never mount 

\s high as woman in her selfless mood. 

<Vnd touching fame, howe'er you scorn 
my song 

Take one verse more — the lady speaks 
it— this: 

' My name, once mine, now thine, is 

closelier mine, 
For fame, could fame be mine, that 

fame were thine, 
A.nd shame, could shame be thine, that 

shame were mine. 
So trust me not at all or all in all.' 

"Says she not well? and there is 

more — this rhyme 
Is like the fair pearl-necklace of the 

Queen, 
That burst in dancing, and the pearls 

were spilt ; 
Some lost, some stolen, some as relics 

kept. 
But never more the same two sister 

pearls 
Ran down the silken thread to kiss 

each other 

18 



On her white neck — so is it with this 

rhyme : 
It lives dispersedly in many hands, 
And every minstrel sings it differently ; 
Yet is there one true line, the pearl of 

pearls ; 
i'Man dreams of Fame while woman/ 

wakes to love.' 
True : Love, tho' Love were of the 

grossest, carves 
A portion from the solid present, eats 
And uses, careless of the rest; but 

Fame, 
The Fame that follows death is nothing 

to us; 
And what is Fame in life but half-dis- 

fame, 
And counterchanged with darkness? 

you yourself 
Know well that Envy calls you Devil's 

son, 
And since you seem the Master of all 

Art, 
They fain would make you Master of 

all Vice." 

And Merlin lock'd his hand in hers 

and said, 
" I once was looking for a magic weed, 
And found a fair young squire who sat 

alone, 
Had carved himself a knightly shield 

of wood, 
And then was painting on it fancied 

arms, 
Azure, an Eagle rising or, the Sun 
In dexter chief; the scroll ' I follow 

fame.' 
And speaking not, but leaning over him, 
I took his brush and blotted out the 

bird, 
And made a Gardener putting in a graff, 
With this for motto, ' Rather use than 

fame.' 
You should have seen him blush ; but 

afterwards 
He made a stalwart knight. O Vivien, 
For you, methinks you think you love 

me well ; 
For me, I love you somewhat ; rest : 

and Love 
Should have some rest and pleasure in 

himself, 
Not ever be too curious for a boon, 



274 



VIVIEN. 



Too prurient for a proof against the 

grain 
Of him you say you love : but Fame 

with men, 
Being but ampler means to serve man- 
kind, 
Should have small rest or pleasure in 

herself, 
But work as vassal to the larger love, 
That dwarfs the petty love of one to one. 
Use gave me Fame at first, and Fame 

again 
Increasing gave me use. Lo, there my 

boon ! 
What other ? for men sought to prove 

me vile, 
Because I wish'd to give them greater 

minds : 
And then did Envy call me Devil's son; 
The sick weak beast seeking to help 

herself 
By striking at her better, miss'd, and 

brought 
Her own claw back, and wounded her 

own heart. 
Sweet were the days when I was all 

unknown, 
But when my name was lifted up, the 

storm 
Broke on the mountain and I cared not 

for it. 
Right well know I that Fame is half- 

disfame, 
Yet needs must work my work. That 

other fame, 
To one at least, who hath not children, 

vague, 
The cackle of the unborn about the 

grave, 
I cared not for it : a single misty star, 
Which is the second in a line of stars 
That seem a sword beneath a belt of 

three, 
I never gazed upon it but I dreamt 
Of some vast charm concluded in that 

star 
To make fame nothing. Wherefore, if 

I fear, 
Giving you power upon me thro' this 

charm, 
That you might play me falsely, having 

power, 
However well you think you love me 

now 



(As sons of kings loving in pupillage 
Have turn'd to tyrants when they came 

to power ) 
I rather dread the loss of use than 

fame; 
If you — and not so much from wicked- 
ness, 
As some wild turn of anger, or a mood • 
Of overstrain'd affection, it may be, 
To keep me all to your own self, or else 
A sudden spurt of woman's jealousy, 
Should try this charm on whom you 
say you love." 

And Vivien answer'd, smiling as in 

wrath : 
" Have I not sworn ? I am not trusted. 

Good! 
Well, hide it, hide it; I shall find it out; 
And being found take heed of Vivien. 
A woman and not trusted, doubtless I 
Might feel some sudden turn of anger 

born 
Of your misfaith ; and your fine epithet 
Is accurate too, for this full love of 

mine 
Without the full heart back may merit 

well 
Your term of overstrain' d. So used as I, 
My daily wonder is, I love at all. 
And as to woman's jealousy, O why not? 

to what end, except a jealous one, 
And one to make me jealous if I love, 
Was this fair charm invented by your- 
self? 

1 well believe that all about this world 
You cage a buxom captive here and 

there, 
Closed in the four walls of a hollow 

tower 
From which is no escape forevermore." 

Then the great Master merrily an- 
swer'd her : 

" Full many a love in loving youth was 
mine, 

I needed then no charm to keep them 
mine 

But youth and love ; and that full heart 
of yours 

Whereof you prattle, may now assure 
you mine ; 

So live uncharm'd. For those who 
wrought it first, 



VIVIEN. 



275 



The wrist is parted from the hand that 
waved, 

The feet unmortised from their ankle- 
bones 

Who paced it, ages back : but will you 
hear 

The legend as in guerdon for your 
rhyme ? 

"There lived a king in the most 
Eastern East, 

Less old than I, yet older, for my blood 

Hath earnest in it of far springs to be. 

A tawny pirate anchor' d in his port, 

Whose bark had plunder'd twenty 
nameless isles ; 

And passing one, at the high peep of 
dawn, 

He saw two cities in a thousand boats 

All fighting for a woman on the sea. 

And pushing his black craft among 
' them all, 

He lightly scatter'd theirs and brought 
her off, 

With loss of half his people arrow- 
slain ; 

A maid so smooth, so white, so won- 
derful, 

They said a light came from her when 
she moved : 

And since the pirate would not yield 
her up, 

The King impaled him for his piracy ; 

Then made her Queen : but those isle- 
nurtur'd eyes 

Waged such unwilling tho' successful 
war 

On all the youth, they sicken'd ; coun- 
cils thinn'd, 

And armies waned, for magnet-like she 
drew 

The rustiest iron of old fighters' hearts ; 

And beasts themselves would worship ; 
camels knelt 

Unbidden, and the brutes of mountain 
back 
1 That carry kings in castles, bow'd black 

knees 
' Of homage, ringing with their serpent 

hands, 
' To make her smile, her golden ankle- 
bells. 

What wonder being jealous, that he 
sent 



His horns of proclamation out thro* all 
The hundred under-kingdoms that he 

sway'd 
To find a wizard who might teach the 

King 
Some charm, which being wrought 

upon the Queen 
Might keep her all his own : to such a 

one 
He promised more than ever king has 

given, 
A league of mountain full of golden 

mines, 
A province with a hundred miles of 

coast, 
A palace and a princess, all for him : 
But on all those who tried and fail'd, 

the King 
Pronounced a dismal sentence, mean- 
ing by it 
To keep the list low and pretenders 

back, 
Or like a king, not to be trifled with — 
Their heads should moulder on the 

city gates. 
And many tried and fail'd, because the 

charm 
Of nature in her overbore their own : 
And many a wizard brow bleach'd on 

the walls : 
And many weeks a troop of carrion 

crows 
Hung like a cloud above the gateway 

towers." 

And Vivien, breaking in upon him, 

said : 
" I sit and gather honey ; yet, methinks, 
Your tongue has tript a little : ask your- 
self. 
The lady never made unwilling war 
With those fine eyes : she had her 

pleasure in it, 
And made her good man jealous with 

good cause. 
And lived there neither dame nor 

damsel then 
Wroth at a lover's loss? were all as 

tame, 
I mean, as noble, as their Queen was 

fair? 
Not one to flirt a venom at her eyes, 
Or pinch a murderous dust into her 

drink, 



27 6 



VIVIEN. 



Or make her paler with a poison'd 

rose? 
Well, those were not our days ; but did 

they find 
A wizard? Tell me, was he like to 

thee ? " 

She ceased, and made her lithe arm 

round his neck 
Tighten, and then drew back, and let 

her eyes 
Speak for her, glowing on him, like a 

bride's 
On her new lord, her own, the first of 

men. 

He answer'd laughing, "Nay, not 

like to me. 
At last they found — his foragers for 

charms — 
A little glassy-headed hairless man, 
Who lived alone in a great wild on 

grass; 
Read but one book, and ever reading 

grew 
So grated down and filed away with 

thought, 
So lean his eyes were monstrous ; 

while the skin 
Clung but to crate and basket, ribs and 

spine. 
And since he kept his mind on one sole 

aim, 
Nor ever touch'd fierce wine, nor tasted 

flesh, 
Nor own'd a sensual wish, to him the 

wall 
That sunders ghosts and shadow-cast- 
ing men 
Became a crystal, and he saw them 

thro' it, 
And heard their voices talk behind the 

wall, 
And learnt their elemental secrets, 

powers 
And forces ; often o'er the sun's bright 

eye 
.*prew the vast eyelid of an inky cloud< 
And lash'd it at the bas* with slanting 

storm ; 
Or in the noon of mist and driving 

rain, 
When the lake whiten'd and the pine- 
wood roar'd, 



And the cairn'd mountain was a shad- 
ow, sunn'd 
The world to peace again : here was 

the man. 
And so by force they dragg'd him to 

the King. 
And then he taught the King to charm 

the Queen 
In such-wise, that no man could see 

her more, 
Nor saw she save the King, who 

wrought the charm, 
Coming and going, and she lay as 

dead, 
And lost all use of life : but when the 

King 
Made proffer of the league of golden 

mines, 
The province with a hundred miles of 

coast, 
The palace and the princess, that old 

man 
Went back to his old wild, and lived 

on grass, 
And vanish'd, and his book came down 

to me." 

And Vivien answer'd, smiling sauci- 
ly : 
"You have the book: the charm is 

written in it : 
Good : take my counsel : let me know 

it at once : 
For keep it like a puzzle chest in chest, 
With each chest lock'd and padlock'd 

thirty-fold, 
And whelm all this beneath as vast a 

mound 
As after furious battle turfs the slain 
On some wild down above the windy 

deep, 
I yet should strike upon a sudden 

means 
To dig, pick, open, find and read the 

charm : 
Then, if I tried it, who should blame 

me then?" 

And smiling as a Master smiles at 
one 

That is not of his school, nor any 
school 

But that where blind and naked Igno- 
rance 



VIVIEN-. 



277 



Delivers brawling judgments, una- 
shamed, 

On all things all day long, he answer'd 
her : 

" You read the book, my pretty Viv- 
ien ! 
O ay, it is but twenty pages long, 
But every page having an ample marge, 
And every marge enclosing in the midst 
A square of text that looks a little blot, 
The text no larger than the limbs of 

fleas ; 
And every square of text an awful 

charm, 
Writ in a language that has long gone 

So long, that mountains have arisen 

since 
With cities on their flanks — you read 

the book ! 
And every margin scribbled, crost, and 

cramm'd 
With comment, densest condensation, 

hard 

To mind and eye ; but the long sleep- 
less nights 
Of my long life have made it easy to 

me. 
And none can read the text, not even I ; 
And none can read the comment but 

myself; 
And in the comment did I find the 

charm. 

O, the results are simple ; a mere child 
Might use it to the harm of any one, 
jAnd never could undo it : ask no more : 
For tho' you should not prove it upon 

me, 
But keep that oath you swore, you 

might, perchance, 
(Assay it on some one of the Table 

Round, 
:And all because you dream they babble 

of you." 

And Vivien, frowning in true anger, 
said : 
J" What dare the full-fed liars say of me? 
They ride abroad redressing human 

wrongs ! 
They sit with knife in meat and wine 

in horn. 
They bound to holy vows of chastity ! 



Were I not woman, I could tell a 
tale. 

But you are man, you well can under- 
stand 

The shame that cannot be explain 'd 
for shame. 

Nol one of all the drove should touch 
me : swine ! " 

Then answer'd Merlin careless of 

her words, 
" You breathe but accusation vast and 

vague, 
Spleen-born, I think, and proofless. 

If you know, 
Set up the charge you know, to stand 

or fall ! " 

And Vivien answer'd, frowning wrath- 

fully : 
"O ay, what say ye to Sir Valence, 

him 
Whose kinsman left him watcher o'er 

his wife 
And two fair babes, and went to distant 

lands ; 
Was one year gone, and on returning 

found 
Not two but three : there lay the reck- 
ling, one 
But one hour old ! What said the 

happy sire ? 
A seven months' babe had been a 

truer gift. 
Those twelve sweet moons confused 

his fatherhood." 

Then answer'd Merlin : " Nay, I know 

the tale. 
Sir Valence wedded with an outland 

dame : 
Some cause had kept him sunder'd 

from his wife : 
One child they had : it lived with her : 

she died : 
His kinsman travelling on his own 

affair 
Was charged by Valence to bring home 

the child. 
He brought, not found it therefore : 

take the truth." 

" O ay," said Vivien, "overtrue a 
tale. 



278 



VIVIEN. 



What say ye then to sweet Sir Sagra- 
more, 

That ardent man ? ' to pluck the flower 
in season ' ; 

So says the song, ' I trow it is no trea- 
son.' 

Master, shall we call him overquick 
To crop his own sweet rose before the 

hour?" 

And Merlin answer' d : " Overquick 

are you 
To catch a lothly plume fall'n from the 

wing 
Of that foul bird of rapine whose whole 

prey 
Is man's good name : he never wrong'd 

his bride. 

1 know the tale. An angry gust of 

wind 

Puff' d out his torch among the myriad- 
room' d 

And many corridor' d complexities 

Of Arthur's palace : then he found a 
door 

And darkling felt the sculptured orna- 
ment 

That wreathen round it made it seem 
his own ; 

And wearied out made for the couch 
and slept, 

A stainless man beside a stainless maid ; 

And either slept, nor knew of other 
there ; 

Till the high dawn piercing the royal 
rose 

In Arthur's casement glimmer' d chaste- 
ly down, 

Blushing upon them blushing, and at 
once 

He rose without a word and parted 
from her : 

But when the thing was blazed about 
the court, 

The brute world howling forced them 
into bonds, 

And as it chanced they are happy, being 
pure." 

" O ay," said Vivien, " that were 
likely too. 
What say ye then to fair Sir Percivale^ 
And of the horrid foulness that he 
wrought, 



The saintly youth, the spotless lamb of 
Christ, 

Or some black wether of St. Satan's 
fold. 

What, in the precincts of the chapel- 
yard, 

Among the knightly brasses of the 
graves, 

And by the cold Hie Jacets of the 
dead ! " 

And Merlin answer'd, careless of her 

charge : 
" A sober man is Percivale and pure ; 
But once in life was fluster'd with new 

wine, 
Then paced for coolness in the chapel- 
yard ; 
Where one of Satan's shepherdesses 

caught 
And meant to stamp him with her 

master's mark; 
And that he sinn'd, is not believable ; 
For, look upon his face! — but if he 

sinn'd, 
The sin that practice burns into the 

blood, 
And not the one dark hour which brings 

remorse, 
Will brand us, after, of whose fold we 

be: 
Or else were he, the holy king, whose 

hymns 
Are chanted in the minster, worse than 

all. 
But is your spleen froth'd out, cr have 

ye more ? " 

And Vivien answer'd, frowning yet in 

wrath : 
" O ay ; what say ye to Sir Lancelot, 

friend ? 
Traitor or true ? that commerce with 

the Queen, 
I ask you, is it clamor'd by the child, 
Or whisper' d in the corner? do you 

know it ? " 

To which he answer'd sadly : " Yea, 
I know it. 
Sir Lancelot went ambassador, at first, 
To fetch her, and she took him for the 

King ; 
So fixt her fancy on him : let him be. 



VIVIEN. 
But have you no one word of loyal 



279 



praise 
For Arthur, blameless King and stain- 
less man? " 

She answer'd with a low and chuck- 
ling laugh : 

" Him ? is he man at all, who knows 
and winks ? 

Sees what his fair bride is and does, 
and winks ? 

By which the good king means to blind 
himself, 

And blinds himself and all the Table 
Round 

To all the foulness that they work. 
Myself 

Could call him (were it not for woman- 
'hood) 

The pretty, popular name such man- 
hood earns, 

Could call him the main cause of all 
their crime ; 

Yea, were he not crown'd king, coward, 
and fool." 

Then Merlin to his own heart, loath- 
ing, said : 

" O true and tender ! O my liege and 
king ! 

O selfless man and stainless gentle- 
man, 

Who wouldst against thine own eye- 
witness fam 

Have all men true and leal, all women 
pure ; 

How, in the mouths of base interpret- 
ers, 

From over-fineness not intelligible 

To things with every sense as false and 
foul 

As the poach'd filth that floods the 
middle street, 

Is thy white blamelessness accounted 
blame ! " 

But Vivien deeming Merlin over- 
borne 

By instance, recommenced, and let her 
tongue 

Rage like a fire among the noblest 
names, 

Polluting, and imputing her whole 
self, 



Defaming and defacing, till she left 
Not even Lancelot brave, nor Galahad 
clean. 

Her words had issue other than she 

will'd. t 
He dragg'd his eyebrow bushes down, 

and made 
A snowy penthouse for his hollow eyes, 
And mutter' d in himself, " Tell her the 

charm ! 
So, if she had it, would she rail on me 
To snare the next, and if she have it 

not. 
So will sire rail. What did the wanton 

say? 
* Not mount as high ' ; we scarce can 

sink as low : 
For men at most differ as Heaven and 

earth, 
But women, worst and best, as Heaven 

and Hell. 
I know the Table Round, my friends 

of old; 
All brave, and many generous, and 

some chaste. 
I think she cloaks the wounds of loss 

with lies ; 
I do believe she tempted them and 

g fail'd, 
She is so bitter : for fine plots may fail, 
Tho' harlots paint their talk as well as 

face 
With colors of the heart that are not 

theirs. 
I will not let her know : nine tithes of 

times 
Face-flatterers and backbiters are the 

same. 
And they, sweet soul, that most impute 

a crime 
Are pronest to it, and impute them- 
selves, 
Wanting the mental rage ; or low desire 
Not to feel lowest makes them level 

all; 
Yea, they would pare the mountain to 

the plain, 
To leave an equal baseness ; and in 

this 
Are harlots like the crowd, that if they 

find 
Some stain or blemish in a name of 

note, 



280 



VIVIEN. 



Not grieving that their greatest are so 
small, 

Inflate themselves with some insane 
delight, 

And judge all nature from her feet of 
clay, 

Without the will to lift their eyes, and 
see 

Her godlike head crown'd with spirit- 
ual fire, 

And touching other worlds. I am 
weary of her." 

He spoke in words part heard, in 

whispers part, « 

Half-suffocated in the hoary fell 
And many-winter'd fleece of throat and 

chin. 
But Vivien, gathering somewhat of his 

mood, 
And hearing "harlot" mutter'd twice 

or thrice, 
Leapt from her session on his lap, and 

stood 
Stiff as a viper frozen ; loathsome sight, 
How from the rosy lips of life and love, 
Flash 'd the bare-grinning skeleton of 

death ! 
White was her cheek ; sharp breaths of 

anger puff 'd 
Her fairy nostril out; her hand half- 

clench'd 
Went faltering sideways downward to 

her belt, 
And feeling ; had she found a dagger 

there 
(For in a wink the false love turns to 

hate) 
She would have stabb'd him ; but she 

found it not : 
His eye was calm, and suddenly she 

took 
To bitter weeping like a beaten child, 
A long, long weeping, not consolable. 
Then her false voice made way broken 

with sobs. 

"O crueller than was ever told in tale, 
Or sung in song ! O vainly lavish'd 

love ! 
O cruel, there was nothing wild or 

strange, 
Or seeming shameful, for what shame 

in love, 



So love be true, and not as yours is — 

nothing 
Poor Vivien had not done to win his 

trust 
Who call'd her what he call'd her — all 

her crime, 
All — all — the wish to prove him who J - 

ly hers." 

She mused a little, and then clap* 

her hands 
Together with a wailing shriek, anf 

said : 
" Stabb'd through the heart's affection* 

to the heart ! 
Seeth'd like the kid in its own mother'.* 

milk! 
KilPd with a word worse than a life of 

blows ! 
I thought that he was gentle, being 

great : 

God, that I had loved a smaller man ! 

1 should have found in him a greater 

heart. 
O, I, that flattering my true passion, 

saw 
The knights, the court, the king, dark 

in your light, 
Who loved to make men darker than 

they are, 
Because of that high pleasure which I 

had 
To seat you sole upon my pedestal 
Of worship — I am answer'd, and 

henceforth 
The course of life that seem'd so flow- 
ery to me 
With you for guide and master, only 

you, 
Becomes the sea-cliff pathway broken 

short, 
And ending in a ruin — nothing left, 
But into some low cave to crawl, and 

there, 
If the wolf spare me, weep my life 

away, 
Kill'd with inutterable unkindliness." 

She paused, she turn'd away, she 

hung her head, 
The snake of gold slid from her hair, 

the braid 
Slipt and uncoil'd itself, she wept 

afresh, 



VIVIEN. 



281 



And the dark wood grew darker toward 

the storm 
In silence, while his anger slowly died 
Within him, till he let his wisdom go 
For ease of heart, and half believed her 

true : 
CalPd her to shelter in the hollow oak, 
" Come from the storm," and having 

no reply, 
Gazed at the heaving shoulder, and the 

face 
Hand-hidden, as for utmost grief or 

shame ; 
Then thrice essay'd, by tenderest- 

touching terms 
To sleek her ruffled peace of mind, in 

vain. 
At last she let herself be conquer'd by 

him, 
And as the cageling newly flown re- 
turns, 
The seeming-injured simple-hearted 

thing 
Came to her old perch back, and settled 

there. 
There while she sat, half-falling from 

his knees, 
Half-nestled at his heart, and since he 

saw 
The slow tear creep from her closed 

eyelid yet, 
About her, more in kindness than in 

love, 
The gentle wizard cast a shielding arm. 
But she dishnk'd herself at once and 

rose, 
Her arms upon her breast across, and 

stood 
A virtuous gentlewoman deeply 

wrong' d, 
Upright and flush'd before him : then 

she said : 

"There must be now no. passages of 
love 

Betwixt us twain henceforward ever- 
more. 

Since, if I be what I am grossly calPd, 

What should be granted which your 
own gross heart 

Would reckon worth the taking? I 
will go. 

In truth, but one thing now — better 
have died 



Thrice than have ask'd it once — could 

make me stay — 
That proof of trust — so often ask'd in 

vain ! 
How justly, after that vile term of yours, 
I find with grief ! I might believe you 

then, 
Who knows ? once more. O, what was 

once to me 
Mere matter of the fancy, now has 

grown 
The vast necessity of heart and life. 
Farewell ; think kindly of me, for I fear 
My fate or fault, omitting gayer youth 
For one so old, must be to love you 

still. 
But ere I leave you let me swear once 

more 
That if I schemed against your peace 

in this, 
May yon just heaven, that darkens o'er 

me, send 
One flash, that, missing all things else, 

may make 
My scheming brain a cinder, if I lie." 

Scarce had she ceased, when out of 

heaven a bolt 
(For now the storm was close above 

them) struck, 
Furrowing a giant oak, and javelin- 

ing 
With darted spikes and splinters of the 

wood 
The dark earth round. He raised his 

eyes and saw 
The tree that shone white-listed thro' 

the gloom. 
But Vivien, fearing heaven had heard 

her oath, 
And dazzled by the livid-flickering fork, 
And deafen'd with the stammering 

cracks and claps 
That follow' d, flying back and crying 

out, 
"O Merlin, tho' you do not love me, 

save, 
Yet save me ! " clung to him and hugg'd 

him close ; 
And call'd him dear protector in her 

fright, 
Nor yet forgot her practice in her fright, 
But wrought upon his mood and hugg'd 

him close. 



282 



ELAINE. 



The pale blood of the wizard at her 

touch 
Took gayer colors, like an opal warm'd. 
She blamed herself for telling hearsay 

tales : 
She shook from fear, and for her fault 

she wept 
Of petulancy ; she call'd him lord and 

liege, 
Her seer, her bard, her silver star of eve, 
Her God, her Merlin, the one passionate 

love 
Of her whole life ; and ever overhead 
Bellow' d the tempest, and the rotten 

branch 
Snapt in the rushing of the river-rain 
Above them ; and in change of glare 

and gloom 
Her eyes and neck glittering went and 

came ; 
Till now the storm, its burst of passion 

spent, 
Moaning and calling out of other lands, 
Had left the ravaged woodland yet 

once more 
To peace ; and what should not have 

been had been, 
For Merlin, overtalk'd and overworn, 
Had yielded, told her all the charm, 

and slept. 

Then, in one moment, she put forth 
the charm 
Of woven paces and of waving hands, 
And in the hollow oak he lay as dead, 
And lost to life and use and name and 
fame. 

\ Then crying " I have made his glory 
mine," 

And shrieking out " O fool ! " the har- 
lot leapt 

Adown the forest, and the thicket closed 

Behind her, and the forest echo'd 
"fool." 



ELAINE. 

Elaine the fair, Elaine the lovable, 
Elaine, the lily maid of Astolat, 
High in her chamber up a tower to the 

east 
Guarded the sacred shield of Lancelot ; 



Which first she placed where morning's 

earliest ray 
Might strike it, and awake her with the 

gleam ; 
Then fearing rust or soilure, fashion'd 

for it 
A case of silk, and braided thereupon 
All the devices blazon'd on the shield 
In their own tinct, and added, of her 

wit, 
A border fantasy of branch and flower, 
And yellow-throated nestling in the 

nest. 
Nor rested thus content, but day by day 
Leaving her household and good father 

climb'd 
That eastern tower, and entering barr'd 

her door, 
Stript off the case, and read the naked 

shield, 
Now guess'd a hidden meaning in his 

arms, 
Now made a pretty history to herself 
Of every dint a sword had beaten in it, 
And every scratch a lance had made 

upon it, 
Conjecturing when and where : this cut 

is fresh ; 
That ten years back ; this dealt him at 

Caerlyle ; 
That at Caerleon ; this at Camelot : 
And ah God's mercy what a stroke was 

there ! 
And here a thrust that might have 

kill'd, but God 
Broke the strong lance, and roll'd his 

enemy down, 
And saved him : so she lived in fantasy. 

How came the lily maid by that good 

shield 
Of Lancelot, she that knew not ev'n 

his name ? 
He left it with her, when he rode to 

tilt 
For the great diamond in the diamond 

jousts, 
Which Arthur had ordain'd, and by 

that name 
Had named them, since a diamond was 

the prize. 

For Arthur when none knew from 
whence he came, 



ELAINE. 



283 



Long ere the people chose him for their 

king, 
Roving the trackless realms of Lyon- 

nesse, » 
Had found a glen, gray boulder and 

black tarn. 
A horror lived about the tarn, and clave 
Like its own mists to all the mountain 

side : 
For here two brothers, one a king, had 

met 
And fought together ; but their names 

were lost. 
And each had slain his brother at a 

blow, 
And down they fell and made the glen 

abhorr'd : 
And there they lay till all their bones 

were bleach'd, 
And lichen'd into color with the crags : 
And he that once was king had on a 

crown 
Of diamonds, one in front, and four 

aside. 
And Arthur came, and laboring up the 

pass 
All in a misty moonshine, unawares 
Had trodden that crown'd skeleton, 

and the skull 
Brake from the nape, and from the 

skull the crown 
Roll'd into light, and turning on its rims 
Fled like a glittering rivulet to the 

tarn : 
And down the shingly scaur he plunged, 

and caught, 
And set it on his head, and in his heart 
Heard murmurs, " Lo, thou likewise 

shalt be king." 

Thereafter, when a king, he had the 

gems 
Pluck'd from the crown, and show'd 

them to his knights, 
Saying " These jewels, whereupon I 

chanced 
Divinely, are the kingdom's, not the 

king's — 
For public use : henceforward let there 

be, 
Once every year, a joust for one of 

these : 
For so by nine years' proof we needs 

must learn 



Which is our mightiest, and ourselves 

shall grow 
In use of arms and manhood, till we 

drive 
The Heathen, who, some say, shall 

rule the land 
Hereafter, which God hinder." Thus 

he spoke : 
And eight years past, eight jousts had 

been, and still 
Had Lancelot won the diamond of the 

year, 
With purpose to present them to the 

Queen, 
When all were won ; but meaning all 

at once 
To snare her royal fancy with a boon 
Worth half her realm, had never spoken 

word. 

Now for the central diamond and the 

last 
And largest, Arthur, holding then his 

court 
Hard on the river nigh the place which 

now 
Is this world's hugest, let proclaim a 

joust 
At Camelot, and when the time drew 

nigh 
Spake ( for she had been sick ) to 

Guinevere, 
" Are you so sick, my Queen, you can- 
not move 
To these fair jousts?" "Yea, lord," 

she said, "you know it." ' 
"Then will you miss," he answer'd, 

. " the great deeds 
Of Lancelot, and his prowess in the 

lists, 
A sight you love to look on." And the 

Queen 
Lifted her eyes, and they dwelt lan- 
guidly 
On Lancelot, where he stood beside 

the King. 
He thinking that he read her meaning 

there, 
" Stay with me, I am sick ; my love is 

more 
Than many diamonds," yielded, and a 

heart, 
Love-loyal to the least wish of the 

Queen 



284 



ELAINE. 



( However much he yearri'd to make 

complete 
The tale of diamonds for his destined 

boon) 
Urged him to speak against the truth, 

and say, 
" Sir King, mine ancient wound is 

hardly whole, 
And lets me from the saddle " ; and 

the King 
Glanced first at him, then her, and went 

his way. 
No sooner gone than suddenly she 

began : 

"To blame, my lord Sir Lancelot, 

much to blame. 
Why go you not to these fair jousts? 

the knights 
Are half of them our enemies, and the 

crowd 
Will murmur, lo the shameless ones, 

who take 
Their pastime now the trustful king is 

gone !" 
Then Lancelot, vext at having lied in 

vain: 
" Are you so wise ? you were not once 

so wise, 
My Queen, that summer, when you 

loved me first. 
Then of the crowd you took no more 

account 
Than of the myriad cricket of the mead, 
When its own voice clings to each 

blade of grass, 
And every voice is nothing. As to 

knights, 
Them surely can I silence with all e'ase. 
But now my loyal worship is allow' d 
Of all men : many a bard, without of- 
fence, 
Has link'd our names together in his 

lay, 
Lancelot, the flower of bravery, Guine- 
vere, 
The pearl of beauty : and our knights 

at feast 
Have pledged us in this union, while 

the king 
Would listen smiling. How then? is 

there more? 
Has Arthur spoken aught? or would 

yourself, 



Now weary of my service and devoir, 
Henceforth be truer to your faultless 
lord?" 

She broke into a little scornful laugh. 
* ' Arthur, my lord, Arthur, the faultless 

King, 
That passionate perfection, my good 

lord — 
But who can gaze upon the Sun in 

heaven ? 
He never spake word of reproach to me, 
He never had a glimpse of mine un- 
truth, 
He cares not for me : only here to-day 
There gleam'd a vague suspicion in his 

eyes : 
Some meddling rogue has tamper'd 

with him — else 
Rapt in this fancy of his Table Round, 
And swearing men to vows impossible, 
To make them like himself: but, friend, 

to me 
He is all fault who hath no fault at all : 
For who loves me must have a touch 

* of earth ; 
The low sun makes the color : I am 

yours, 
Not Arthur's, as you know, save by 

the bond. 
And therefore hear my words : go to 

the jousts : 
The tiny-trumpeting gnat can break 

our dream 
When sweetest ; and the vermin voices 

here 
May buzz so loud — we scorn them, 

but they sting." 

Then answer'd Lancelot, the chief of 

knights, 
" And with what face, after my pretext 

made, 
Shall I appear, O Queen, at Camelot, I 
Before a king who honors his own word, 
As if it were his God's?" 

"Yea," said the Queen, 
"A moral child without the craft to 

rule, 
Else had he not lost me : but listen to 

me, 
If I must find you wit : we hear it said 
That men go down before your spear at 

a touch 



ELAINE. 



285 



But knowing you are Lancelot ; your 

great name, 
This conquers : hide it therefore ; go 

unknown : 
Win ! by this kiss you will : and our 

true king 
Will then allow your pretext, O my 

knight, 
As all for glory ; for to speak him true, 
You know right well, how meek soe'er 

he seem, 
No keener hunter after glory breathes. 
He loves it in his knights more than 

himself: 
They prove to him his work : win and 

return." 

Then got Sir Lancelot suddenly to 
horse, 

Wroth at himself: not willing to be 
known, 

He left the barren-beaten thoroughfare, 

Chose the green path that show'd the 
rarer foot, 

And there among the solitary downs, 

Full often lost in fancy, lost his way ; 

Till as he traced a faintly-shadow'd 
track, 

That all in loops and links among the 
dales 

Ran to the Castle of Astolat, he saw 

Fired from the west, far on a hill, the 
towers. 

Thither he made and wound the gate- 
way horn. 

Then came an old, dumb, myriad- 
wrinkled man, 

Who let him into lodging and disarm'd. 

And Lancelot marvell'd at the word- 
less man ; 

And issuing found the Lord of Astolat 

With two strong sons, Sir Torre and 
Sir Lavaine, 

Moving to meet him in the castle court ; 

And close behind them stept the lily 
maid 

Elaine, his daughter : mother of the 
house 

There was not : some light jest among 
them rose 

With laughter dying down as the great 
knight 

Approach'd them : then the Lord of 
Astolat, 



" Whence comest thou, my guest, and 

by what name 
Livest between the lips? for by thy 

state 
And presence I might guess thee chief 

of those, 
After the king, who eat in Arthur's 

halls. 
Him have I seen : the rest, his Table 

Round, 
Known as they are, to me they are • 

unknown." 

Then answer' d Lancelot, the chief of 

knights, 
" Known am I, and of Arthur's hall, 

and known, 
What I by mere mischance have 

brought, my shield. 
But since I go to joust as one unknown 
At Camelot for the diamond, ask me 

not, 
Hereafter you shall know me — and the 

shield — 
I pray you lend me One, if'such you 

have, 
Blank, or at least with some device not 

mine." 

Then said the Lord of Astolat, "Here 

is Torre's : 
Hurt in his first tilt was my son, Sir 

Torre. 
And so, God wot, his shield is blank 

enough. 
His you can have." Then added plain 

Sir Torre, 
"Yea since I cannot use it, you may 

have it." 
Here laugh'd the father, saying, " Fie, 

Sir Churl, 
Is that an answer for a noble knight? 
Allow him : but Lavaine, my younger 

here, 
He is so full of lustihood, he will ride 
Joust for it, and win, and bring it in an 

hour 
And set it in this damsel's golden hair, 
To make her thrice as wilful as before." 

"Nay, father, nay good father, shame 
me not 
Before this noble knight," said young 
Lavaine, 



286 



ELAINE. 



" For nothing. Surely I but play'd on 

Torre : 
He seem'd so sullen, vext he could not 

S o: 
A jest, no more: for, knight, the maiden 

dreamt 
That some one put this diamond in her 

hand, 
And that it was too slippery to be held, 
And slipt and fell into some pool or 

stream, 
The castle-well, belike; and then I said 
That if I went and if I fought and 

won it 
( But all was jest and joke among our- 
selves) 
Then must she keep it safelier. All 

was jest. 
But father give me leave, an if he will, 
To ride to Camelot with this noble 

knight : 
Win shall I not, but do my best to win : 
Young as I am, yet would I do my 

best." 

" So you will grace me," answer'd 
Lancelot, 

Smiling a moment, " with your fellow- 
ship 

O'er these waste downs whereon I lost 
myself, 

Then were I glad of you as guide and 
friend ; 

And you shall win this diamond — as I 
hear, 

It is a fair large diamond, — ifyou may, 

And yield it to this maiden, if you 
will." 

"A fair large diamond," added plain 
Sir Torre, 

"Such be for Queens and not for simple 
maids." 

Then she, who held her eyes upon the 
ground, 

Elaine, and heard her name so tost 
about, 

Flush'd slightly at the slight disparage- 
ment 

Before the stranger knight, who, look- 
ing at her, 

Full courtly, yet not falsely, thus re- 
turn 'd : 

" If what is fair be but for what is fair, 

And only Queens are to be counted so, 



Rash were my judgment then, who 

deem this maid 
Might wear as fair a jewel as is on earth, 
Not violating the bond of like to like." 

He spoke and ceased : the lily maid 
Elaine, 

Won by the mellow voice before she 
look'd, 

Lifted her eyes, and read his linea- 
ments. 

The great and guilty love he bare the 
Queen, 

In battle with the love he bare his lord, 

Had marr'd his face, and mark'd it ere 
his time. 

Another sinning on such heights with 
one, 

The flower of all the west and all the 
world, 

Had been the sleeker for it : but in him 

His mood was often like a fiend, and 
rose 

And drove him into wastes and soli- 
tudes 

For agony, who was yet a living soul. 

Marr'd as he was, he seem'd the good- 
liest man, 

That ever among ladies ate in Hall, 

And noblest, when she lifted up her 
eyes. 

However marr'd, of more than twice 
her years, 

Seam'd with an ancient swordcut on 
the cheek, 

And bruised and bronzed, she lifted up 
her eyes 

And loved him, with that love which 
was her doom. 

Then the great knight, the darling of 

the court, 
Loved of the loveliest, into that rude 

hall 
Stept with all grace, and not with half 

disdain 
Hid under grace, as in a smaller time, 
But kindly man moving among hiskind: 
Whom they with meats and vintage of 

their best 
And talk and minstrel melody enter- 

tain'd. 
And much they ask'd of court and Table 

Round, 



ELAINE. 



287 



And ever well and readily answer'd he : 
But Lancelot, when they glanced at 

Guinevere, 
Suddenly speaking of the wordless 

man, 
Heard from the Baron that, ten years 

before, 
The heathen caught and reft him of his 

tongue. 
" He learnt and warn'd me of their 

fierce design 
Against my house, and him they caught 

and maim'd ; 
But I my sons and little daughter fled 
From bonds or death, and dwelt among 

the woods 
By the great river in a boatman's hut. 
Dull days were those, till our good 

Arthur broke 
The Pagan yet once more on Badon 

hill. " 

" O there, great Lord, doubtless," 

Lavaine said, rapt 
By all the sweet and suc^en passion of 

youth 
Toward greatness in its elder, "you 

have fought. 
O tell us ; for we live apart, you know 
Of Arthur's glorious wars." And Lan- 
celot spoke 
And answer'd him at full, as having 

been 
With Arthur in the fight which all day 

long 
Rang by the white mouth of the violent 

Glem ; 
And in the four wild battles by the shore 
Of Duglas ; that on Bassa ; then the war 
That thunder' d in and out the gloomy 

skirts 
Of Celidon the forest ; and again 
By castle Gurnion where the glorious 

King 
Had on his cuirass worn our Lady's 

Head, 
Carved of one emerald, centred in a sun 
Of silver rays, that lighten 'd as he 

breathed ; 
And at Caerleon had he help'd his lord, 
When the strong neighings of the wild 

white Horse 
Set every gilded parapet shuddering ; 
And up in Agned Cathregonion too, 



And down the waste sand-shores of 

Trath Treroit, 
Where many a heathen fell ; " and on 

the mount 
Of Badon I myself beheld the King 
Charge at the head of all his Table 

Round, 
And all his legions crying Christ and 

him, 
And break them ; and I saw him, after, 

stand 
High on a heap of slain, from spur to 

plume 
Red as the rising sun with heathen 

blood, 
And seeing me, with a great voice he 

cried, 
" They are broken, they are broken " 

for the King, 
However mild he seems at home, nor 

cares 
For triumph in our mimic wars, the 

> jousts 

For if his own knight cast him down, 

he laughs 
Saying, his knights are better men than 

he — 
Yet in this heathen war the fire of God 
Fills him : I never saw his like : there 

lives 
No greater leader." 

While he utter'd this, 
Low to her own heart said the lily maid, 
" Save your great self, fair lord" ; and 

when he fell 
From talk of war to traits of pleas- 
antry — 
Being mirthful he but in a stately kind — 
She still took note that when the living 

smile 
Died from his lips, across him came a 

cloud 
Of melancholy severe, from which again, 
Whenever in her hovering to and fro 
The lily maid had striven to make him 

cheer, 
There brake a sudden-beaming tender- 
ness 
Of manners and of nature : and she 

thought 
That all was nature, all, perchance, for 

her. 
And all night long his face before her 

lived, 



288 



ELAINE. 



As when a painter, poring on a face, 
Divinely thro' all hindrance finds the 

man 
Behind it, and so paints him that his 

face, 
The shape and color of a mind and life, 
Lives for his children, ever at its best 
And fullest ; so the face before her lived, 
Dark-splendid, speaking in the silence, 

full 
Of noble things, and held her from her 

sleep. 
Till rathe she rose, half-cheated in the 

thought 
She needs must bid farewell to sweet 

Lavaine. 
First as in fear, step after step, she stole 
Down the long tower-stairs, hesitating : 
Anon, she heard Sir Lancelot cry in 

the court, 
"This shield, my friend, where is it?" 

and Lavaine 
Past inward, as she came from out the 

tower. 
There to his proud horse Lancelot 

turn'd, and smooth'd 
The glossy shoulder, humming to him- 
self. 
Half-envious of the flattering hand, she 

drew 
Nearer and stood. He look'd,and more 

amazed 
Than if seven men had set upon him, 

saw 
The maiden standing in the dewy light. 
He had not dream' d she was so beau- 
tiful. 
Then came on him a sort of sacred fear, 
For silent, tho' he greeted her, she 

stood 
Rapt on his face as if it were a God's. 
Suddenly flash'd on her a wild desire, 
That he should wear her favor at the 

tilt. 
She braved a riotous heart in asking 

for it. 
" Fair lord, whose name I know not — 

noble it is, 
I well believe, the noblest — will you 

wear 
My favor at this tourney? " " Nay," 

said he, 
" Fair lady, since I never yet have worn 
Favor of any lady in the lists. 



Such is my wont, as those, who know 

me, know." 
"Yea, so," she answer' d ; "then in 

wearing mine 
Needs must be lesser likelihood, noble 

lord, 
That those who know should know 

you." And he turn'd 
Her counsel up and down within his 

mind, 
And found it true, and answer' d, "True, 

my child. 
Well, I will wear it : fetch it out tome : 
What is it? " and she told him "a red 

sleeve 
Broider'd with pearls," and brought it : 

then he bound 
Her token on Ins helmet, with a smile 
Saying, " I never yet have done so 

much 
For any maiden living," and the blood 
Sprang to her face, and fill'd her with 

delight ; 
But left her all the paler, when Lavaine 
Returning bought the yet unblazon'd 

shield, 
His brother's ; which he gave to Lan- 
celot, 
Who parted with his own to fair Elaine ; 
" Do me this grace, my child, to have 

my shield 
In keeping till I come." "A grace to 

me," 
She answer'd, " twice to-day. I am 

your Squire." 
Whereat Lavaine said, laughing, " Lily 

maid, 
For fear our people call you lily maid 
In earnest, let me bring your color 

back; 
Once, twice, and thrice : now get you 

hence to bed " : 
So kiss'd her, and Sir Lancelot his own 

hand, 
And thus they moved away : she stay'd 

a minute, 
Then made a sudden step to the gate, 

and there — 
Her bright hair blown about the serious 

face 
Yet rosy-kindled with her brother's 

kiss — 
Paused in the gateway, standing by the 

shield 



ELAINE. 



289 



In silence, while she watch'd their arms 

far-off 
Sparkle, until they dipt below the 

downs. 
Then to her tower she climb'd, and 

took the shield, 
There kept it, and so lived in fantasy. 

Meanwhile the new companions past 
away 

Far o'er the long backs of the bushless 
downs, 

To where Sir Lancelot knew there lived 
a knight 

Not far from Camelot, now for forty 
years 

A hermit, who had pray'd, labor'd and 
pray'd 

And ever laboring had scoop'd him- 
self 

In the white rock a chapel and a hall 

On massive columns, like a shorecliff 
cave, 

And cells and chambers : all were fair 
and dry ; 

The green light from the meadows un- 
derneath 

Struck up and lived along the milky 
roofs ; 

And in the meadows tremulous aspen- 
trees 

And poplars made a noise of falling 
showers. 

And thither wending there that night 
they bode. 

But when the next day broke from 
underground, 

And shot red fire and shadows thro' the 
cave, 

They rose, heard mass, broke fast, and 
rode away : 

Then Lancelot saying, " Hear, but hold 
my name 

Hidden, you ride with Lancelot of the 
Lake," 

Abash'd Lavaine, whose instant rever- 
ence, 

Dearer to true young hearts than their 
own praise, 

But left him leave to stammer, " Is it 
indeed? " 

And after muttering " the great Lan- 
celot " 

19 



At last he got his breath and answer' d, 

" One, 
One have I seen — that other, our liege 

lord, 
The dread Pendragon, Britain's king 

of kings, 
Of whom the people talk mysteriously, 
He will be there — then were I stricken 

blind 
That minute, I might say that I had 



So spake Lavaine, and when they 
reach'd the lists 

By Camelot in the meadow, let his eyes 

Run thro' the peopled gallery which 
half round 

Lay like a rainbow fall'n upon the grass, 

Until they found the clear-faced King, 
who sat 

Robed in red samite, easily to be 
known, 

Since to his crown the golden dragon 
clung, 

And down his robe the dragon writhed 
in gold, 

And from the carven-work behind him 
crept 

Two dragons gilded, sloping down to 
make 

Arms for his chair, while all the rest of 
them 

Thro' knots and loops and folds innu- 
merable 

Fled ever thro' the woodwork, till they 
found 

The new design wherein they lost them- 
selves, 

Yet with all ease, so tender was the 
work : 

And, in the costly canopy o'er him 
set, 

Blazed the last diamond of»the name- 
less king. 

Then Lancelot answer'd young La- 
vaine and said, 

" Me you call great : mine is the firmer 
seat, 

The truer lance : but there is many a 
youth 

Now crescent, who will come to all I am 

And overcome it ; and in me there 
dwells 



290 



ELAINE. 



No greatness, save it be some far-off 

touch 
Of greatness to know well I am not 

great : 
There is the man." And Lavaine gaped 

upon him 
As on a thing miraculous, and anon 
The trumpets blew ; and then did either 

side, 
They that assail'd, and they that held 

the lists, 
Set lance in rest, strike spur, suddenly 

move, 
Meet in the midst, and there so fu- 
riously 
Shock, that a man far-off might well 

perceive, 
If any man that day were left afield, 
The hard earth shake, and a low thun- 
der of arms. 
And Lancelot bode a little, till he 

saw 
"Which were the weaker ; then he hurl'd 

into it 
Against the stronger : little need J.o 

speak 
Of Lancelot in his glory : King, duke, 

earl, 
Count, baron — whom he smote, he 

overthrew. 

But in the field were Lancelot's kith 

and kin, 
Ranged with the Table Round that 

held the lists, 
Strong men, and wrathful that a stranger 

knight 
Should do and almost overdo the deeds 
Of Lancelot ; and one said to the other, 

"Lo! 
What is he ? I do not mean the force 

alone, 
The grace"and versatility of the man — 
Is it not Lancelot 1 " " When has 

Lancelot worn 
Favor of any lady in the lists ? 
Not such his wont, as we, that know 

him, know." 
" How then ? who then ? " a fury seized 

on them, 
A fiery family passion for the name 
Of Lancelot, and a glory one with theirs. 
They couch' d their spears and prick'd 

their steeds and thus, 



Their plumes driv'n backward by the 
wind they made 

In moving, all together down upon him 

Bare, as a wild wave in the wild North- 
sea, 

Green-glimmering toward the summit, 
bears, with all 

Its stormy crests that smoke against the 
skies, 

Down on a bark, and overbears the 
bark, 

And him that helms it, so they over- 
bore 

Sir Lancelot and his charger, and a 
spear 

Down-glancing lamed the charger, and 
a spear 

Prick'd sharply his own cuirass, and the 
head 

Pierced thro' his side, and there snapt, 
and re main' d. 

Then Sir Lavaine did well and wor- 

shipfully ; 
He bore a knight of old repute to the 

earth, 
And brought his horse to Lancelot 

where he lay. 
He up the side, sweating with agony, 

got, 
But thought to do while he might yet 

endure, 
And being lustily holpcn by the rest, 
His party, — tho' it seemed half-miracle 
To those he fought with — drave his 

kith and kin, 
And all the Table Round that held the 

lists, 
Back to the barrier ; then the heralds 

blew 
Proclaiming his the prize, who wore 

the sleeve 
Of scarlet, and the pearls ; and all the 

knights, 
His party, cried " Advance, and take 

your prize 
The diamond " ; but he answer'd, "Dia- 
mond me 
No diamonds ! for God's love, a little 

air ! 
Prize me no prizes, for my prize is 

death! 
Hence will I and I charge you, follow 

me not." 



ELAINE. 



291 



He spoke, and vanish'd suddenly 

from the field 
With young Lavaine into the poplar 

grove. 
There from his charger down he slid, 

and sat, 
Gasping to Sir Lavaine, " Draw the 

lance-head " : 
" Ah my sweet lord Sir Lancelot," said 

Lavaine, 
" I dread me, if I draw it, you will die." 
But he, " I die already with it : draw — 
Draw" — and Lavaine drew, and that 

other gave 
A marvellous great shriek and ghastly 

groan, 
And half his blood burst forth, and 

down he sank 
For the pure pain, and wholly swoon'd 

away. 
Then came the hermit out and bare 

him in, 
There stanch'd his wound ; and there, 

in daily doubt 
Whether to live or die, for many a week 
Hid from the wide world's rumor by 

the grove 
Of poplars with their noise of falling 

showers, 
And ever-tremulous aspen-trees, he 

lay. 

But on that day when Lancelot fled 
the lists, 

His party, knights of utmost North 
and West, 

Lords of waste marches, kings of deso- 
late isles, 

Came round their great Pendragon, 
saying to him, 

" Lo, Sire, our knight thro' whom we 
won the day 

Hath gone sore wounded, and hath left 
his prize 

Untaken, crying that his prize is death. " 

"Heaven hinder," said the King, 
" that such an one, 

So great a knight as we have seen to- 
day — 

He seem'd to me another Lancelot — 

Yea, twenty times I thought him Lan- 
celot — 

He must not pass uncared for. Gawain, 
rise, 



My nephew, and ride forth and find the 

knight. 
Wounded and wearied needs must he 

be near. 
I charge you that you get at once to 

horse. 
And, knights and kings, there breathes 

not one of you 
Will deem this prize of ours is rashly 

- given : 
His prowess was too wondrous. We 

will do him 
No customary honor : since the knight 
Came not to us, of us to claim the prize, 
Ourselves will send it after. Wherefore 

take 
This diamond, and deliver it, and re^ 

turn, 
And bring us what he is and how he 

fares, 
And cease not from your quest, until 

you find." 

So saying from the carven flower 

above, 
T*o which it made a restless heart, he 

took, 
And gave, the diamond : then from 

where he sat 
At Arthur's right, with smiling face 

arose, 
With smiling face and frowning heart, 

a Prince 
In the mid might and flourish of his 

May, 
Gawain, surnamed The Courteous, fair 

and strong, 
And after Lancelot, Tristram, and Ge- 

raint 
And Lamorack, a good knight, but 

therewithal 
Sir Modred's brother, of a crafty house, 
Nor often loyal to his word, and now 
Wroth that the king's command to sally 

forth 
In quest of whom he knew not, made 

him leave 
The banquet, and concourse of knights 

and kings. 

So all in wrath he got to horse and 
went ; 
While Arthur to the banquet, dark in 
mood, 



292 



ELAINE. 



Past, thinking, " Is it Lancelot who has 

come 
Despite the wound he spake of, all for 

gain 
Of glory, and has added wound to 

wound, 
And ridd'n away to die?" So fear'd 

the King, 
And, after two days' tarriance there, 

return'd. • 

Then when he saw the Queen, em- 
bracing ask'd, 
" Love, are you yet so sick? " " Nay, 

lord," she said. 
" And where is Lancelot ? " Then the 

Queen amazed, 
" Was he not with you ? won he not 

your prize?" 
" Nay, but one like him." "Why 

that like was he." 
And when the King demanded how she 

knew, 
Said, " Lord, no sooner had you parted 

from us, 
Than Lancelot told me of a common 

talk 
That men went down before his spear 

at a touch, 
But knowing he was Lancelot ; his great 

name 
Conquer'd ; and therefore would he 

hide his name 
From all men, ev'n the king, and to 

this end 
Had made the pretext of a hindering 

wound, 
That he might joust unknown of all, 

and learn 
If his old prowess were in aught de- 
cay 'd : 
And added, ' Our true Arthur, when he 

learns, 
Will well allow my pretext, as for gain 
Of purer glory.' " 

Then replied the King : 
" Far lovelier in our Lancelot had it 

been, 
In lieu of idly dallying with the truth, 
To have trusted me as he has trusted 

you. 
Surely his king and most familiar friend 
Might well have kept his secret. True, 

indeed, 
Albeit I know my knights fantastical, 



So fine a fear in our large Lancelot 
Must needs have moved my laughter : 

now remains 
But little cause for laughter : his own 

kin — 
111 news, my Queen, for all who love 

him, these ! 
His kith and kin, not knowing, set upon 

him ; 
So that he went sore wounded from the 

field: 
Yet good news too : for goodly hopes 

are mine 
That Lancelot is no more a lonely 

heart. 
He wore, against his wont, upon his 

helm 
A sleeve of scarlet, broidered with great 

pearls, 
Some gentle maiden's gift." 

" Yea, lord," she said, 
"Your hopes are mine," and saying 

that she choked, 
And sharply turn'd about to hide her 

face, 
Moved to her chamber, and there flung 

herself 
Down on the great King's couch, and 

writhed upon it, 
And clench'd her fingers till they bit 

the palm, 
And shriek'd out ' traitor ' to the un- 

hearing wall, 
Then flash'd into wild tears, and rose 

again, 
And moved about her palace, proud 

and pale. 

Gawain the while thro' all the region 

round 
Rode with his diamond, wearied of the 

quest, 
Touch'd at all points, except the poplar 

grove, 
And came at last, tho' late, to Asto- 

lat: 
Whom glittering in enamell'd arms the 

• maid 
Glanced at, and cried " What news 

from Camelot, lord ? 
What of the knight with the red 

sleeve ? " " He won." 
" I knew it," she said. " But parted 

from the jousts 



ELAINE. 



293 



Hurt in the side," whereat she caught 

her breath. 
Thro' her own side she felt the sharp 

lance go ; 
Thereon she smote her hand : wellnigh 

she swoon 'd : 
And, while he gazed wonderingly at 

her, came 
The lord of Astolat out, to whom the 

Prince 
Reported who he was, and on what 

quest 
Sent, that he bore the prize and could 

not find 
The victor, but had ridden wildly round 
To seek him, and was wearied of the 

search. 
To whom the lord of Astolat, " Bide 

with us, 
And ride no longer wildly, noble 

Prince ! 
Here was the knight, and here he left 

a shield ; 

This will he send or come for : further- 
more 
Our son is with him ; we shall hear 

anon, 
Needs must we hear." To this the 

courteous Prince 
Accorded with his wonted courtesy, 
Courtesy with a touch of traitor in it, 
And stay'd ; and cast his eyes on fair 

Elaine : 
Where could be found face daintier? 

then her shape 
From forehead down to foot perfect — 

again 
From foot to forehead exquisitely 

turn'd : 
"Well — if I bide, lo ! this wild flower 

for me ! " 
And oft they met among the garden 

yews, 
And there he set himself to play upon 

her 
With sallying wit, free flashes from a 

height 
Above her, graces of the court, and 

songs, 
Sighs, and slow smiles, and golden elo- 
quence 
And amorous adulation, till the maid 
Rebell'd against it, saying to him, 

" Prince, 



O loyal nephew of our noble King, 
Why ask you not to see the shield he 

left, 
Whence you might learn his name ? 

Why slight your King, 
And lose the quest he sent you on, and 

prove 
No surer than our falcon yesterday, 
Who lost the hern we slipt him at, and 

went 
To all the winds?" " Nay, by mine 

head," said he, 
" I lose it, as we lose the lark in heaven, 
O damsel, in the light of your blue 

eyes : 
But an you will it let me see the shield. " 
And when the shield was brought, and 

Gawain saw 
Sir Lancelot's azure lions, crpwn'd with 

gold, * 

Ramp in the field, he smote his thigh, 

and mock'd ; 
" Right was the King ! our Lancelot ! 

that true man ! " 
" And right was I," she answer' d mer- 
rily, " I, 
Who dream'd my knight the greatest 

knight of all." 
" And if / dream'd," said Gawain, 

" that you love 
This greatest knight, your pardon ! lo, 

you know it 1 
Speak therefore : shall I waste myself 

in vain ? " 
Full simple was her answer : " What 

know I ? 
My brethren have been all my fellow- 
ship, 
And I, when often they have talk'd of 

love, 
Wish'd it had been my mother, for 

they talk'd, 
Meseem'd, of what they knew not ; so 
myself — 
{ I know not if I know what true love is, 
J But if I know, then, if I love not him, 
} Methinks there is none other I can 
love." 
" Yea, by God's death," said he, " you 

love him well, 
But would not, knew you what all 

others know, 
And whom he loves." "So be it," 
cried Elaine, 



294 



ELAINE. 



And lifted her fair face and moved 

away : 
But he pursued her calling, " Stay a 

little ! 
One golden minute's grace : he wore 

your sleeve : 
Would he break faith with one I may 

not name? 
Must our true man change like a leaf at 

last? 
May it be so ? why then, far be it from 

me 
To cross our mighty Lancelot in his 

loves ! 
And, damsel, for I deem you know full 

well 
Where your great knight is hidden, let 

me leave 
My quest with you ; the diamond also : 

her^! 
For if you love, it will be sweet to 

give it ; 
And if he love, it will be sweet to 

have it 
From your own hand ; and whether he 

love or not, 
A diamond is a diamond. Fare you 

well 
A thousand times I — a thousand times 

farewell ! 
Yet, if he love, and his love hold, we 

two 
May meet at court hereafter : there, I 

think, 
So you will leam the courtesies of the 

court, 
We two shall know each other." 

Then he gave, 
And slightly kiss'd the hand to which 

he gave, 
The diamond, and all wearied of the 

quest 
Leapt on his horse, and carolling as he 

went 
A true-love ballad, lightly rode away. 

Thence to the court he past ; there 

told the King 
What the King knew, " Sir Lancelot is 

the knight." 
And added, " Sire, my liege, so much I 

learnt ; 
But fail'd to find him tho' I rode all 

round 



. 



The region : but I lighted on the mai< 
Whose sleeve he wore ; she loves him 

and to her, 
Deeming our courtesy is the truest law, 
I gave the diamond : she will render it ; 
For by mine head she knows his hiding- 
place." 

The seldom-frowning King frown'd, 

and replied, 
" Too courteous truly ! you shall go no 

more 
On quest of mine, seeing that you 

forget 
Obedience is the courtesy due to 

kings." 

He spake and parted. Wroth but all 

in awe, 
For twenty strokes of the blood, without 

a word, 
Linger'd that other, staring after him ; 
Then shook his hair, strode off, and 

buzz'd abroad 
About the maid of Astolat, and her 

love. 
All ears were prick'd at once, all 

tongues were loosed : 
" The maid of Astolat loves Sir Lan- 
celot, 
Sir Lancelot loveslhe maid of Astolat." 
Some read the King's face, some the 

Queen's, and all 
Had marvel what the maid might be, 

but most 
Predoom'd her as unworthy. One old 

dame 
Came suddenly on the Queen with the 

sharp news. 
She, that had heard the noise of it 

before, 
But sorrowing Lancelot should have 

stoop'd so low, 
Marr'd her friend's point with pale 

tranquillity. 
So ran the tale like fire about the court, 
Fire in dry stubble a nine days' wonder 

flared : 
Till ev'n the knights at banquet twice 

or thrice 
Forgot to drink to Lancelot and the 

Queen, 
And pledging Lancelot and the lily 

maid 



ELAINE. 



295 



smiled at each other, while the Queen 

who sat 
iVith lips severely placid felt the knot 
^limb in her throat, and with her feet 

unseen 
Drush'd the wild passion out against 

the floor 
Beneath the banquet, where the meats 

became 
\s wormwood, and she hated all who 

pledged. 

But far away the maid in Astolat, 
Her guiltless rival, she that ever kept 
The one-day-seen Sir Lancelot in her 

heart, 
Crept to her father, while he mused 

alone, 
Sat on his knee, stroked his gray face 

and said, 
Father, you call me wilful, and the 

fault 
Is yours who let me have my will, and 

now, 
Sweet father, will you let me lose my 

wits?" 
" Nay," said he, " surely." " Where- 
fore let me hence," 
She answer'd, " and find out our dear 

Lavaine." 
" You will not lose, your wits for dear 

Lavaine : 
Bide," answer'd he : " we needs must 

hear anon 
Of him, and of that other." "Ay," 

she said, 
"And of that other, for I needs must 

hence 
And find that other, whereso'er he be, 
And with mine own hand give his dia- 
mond to him, 
Lest I be found as faithless in the quest 
As yon proud Prince who left the quest 

to me. 
Sweet father, I behold him in my 

dreams 
Gaunt as it were the skeleton of himself, 
Death-pale, for lack of gentle maiden's 

aid. 
The gentler-born the maiden, the more 

bound, 
My father, to be sweet and serviceable 
To noble knights in sickness, as you 

know, 



When these have worn their tokens: 

let me hence 
I pray you." Then her father nodding 

said, 
" Ay, ay, the diamond : wit you well, 

my child, 
Right fain were I to learn this knight 

were whole, 
Being our greatest : yea, and you must 

give it — 
And sure I think this fruit is hung too 

high 
For any mouth to gape for save a 

Queen's — 
Nay, I mean nothing : so then, get you 

gone, 
Being so very wilful you must go." 

Lightly, her suit allow'd, she slipt 

away, 
And while she made her ready for her 

ride, 
Her father's latest word humm'd in her 

ear, 
" Being so very wilful you must go," 
And changed itself and echoed in her 

heart, 
" Being so very wilful you must die." 
But she was happy enough and shook 

it off, 
As we shake off the bee that buzzes 

at us ; 
And in her heart she answer'd it and 

said, 
" What matter, so I help him back to 

life ? " 
Then far away with good Sir Torre for 

guide 
Rode o'er the long backs of the bush- 
less downs 
To Camelot, and before the city-gates 
Came on her brother with a happy face 
Making a roan horse caper and curvet 
For pleasure all about a field of flowers : 
Whom when she saw, " Lavaine," she 

cried, '* Lavaine, 
How fares my lord Sir Lancelot ? " He 

amazed, 
"Torre and Elaine! why here? Sir 

Lancelot ! 
How know you my lord's name is Lan- 
celot? " 
But when the maid had told him all her 

tale, 



296 



ELAINE. 



Then turn'd Sir Torre, and being in 

his moods 
Left them, and under the strange- 

statued gate, 
Where Arthur's wars were render'd 

mystically, 
Past up the still rich city to his kin, 
His own far blood, which dwelt at 

Camelot ; 
And her Lavaine across the poplar 

grove 
Led to the caves : there first she saw 

the casque 
Of Lancelot on the wall : her scarlet 

sleeve, 
Tho' carved and cut, and half the pearls 

away, 
Stream'd from it still ; and in her heart 

she laugh'd, 
Because he had not loosed it from his 

helm, 
But meant once more perchance to 

tourney in it. 
And when they gain'd the cell in which 

he slept. 
His battle-writhen arms and mighty 

hands 
Lay naked on the wolfskin, and a dream 
Of dragging down his enemy made them 

move. 
Then she that saw him lying unsleek, 

unshorn, 
Gaunt as it were the skeleton of himself, 
Utter'd a little tender dolorous cry. 
The sound not wonted in a place so 

still 
Woke the sick knight, and while he 

roll'd his eyes 
Yet blank from sleep, she started to 

him, saying, 
" Your prize the diamond sent you by 

the King" : 
His eyes glisten'd : she fancied " is it 

for me ? " 
And when the maid had told him all 

the tale 
Of King and Prince, the diamond sent, 

the quest 
Assign'd to her not worthy of it, she 

knelt 
Full lowly by the corners of his bed, 
And laid the diamond in his open hand. 
Her face was near, and as we kiss the 

child 



That does the task assign'd, he kiss'd 

her face. 
At once she slipt like water to the floor. 
"Alas," he said, " your ride has wear- 
ied you. 
Rest must you have." "No rest for 

me," she said ; 
" Nay, for near you, fair lord, I am at 

rest." 
What might she mean by that? his 

large black eyes, 
Yet larger thro' his leanness, dwelt 

upon her, 
Till all her heart's sad secret blazed 

itself 
In the heart's colors on her simple face ; 
And Lancelot look'd and was perplext 

in mind, 
And being weak in body said no more ; 
But did not love the color ; woman's 

love, 
Save one, he not regarded, and so 

turn'd 
Sighing, and feign'd a sleep until he 

slept. 

Then rose Elaine and glided thro' 

the fields, 
And past beneath the wildly-sculptured 

gates 
Far up the dim rich city to her kin ; 
There bode the night : but woke with 

dawn, and past 
Down thro' the dim rich city to the 

fields, 
Thence to the cave : so day by day she 

past 
In either twilight ghost-like to and fro 
Gliding, and every day she tended him, 
And likewise many a night : and Lan- 
celot 
Would, tho' he call'd his wound a little 

hurt 
Whereof he should be quickly whole, 

at times 
Brain -feverous in his heat and agony, 

seem 
Uncourteous, even he : but the meek 

maid 
Sweetly forbore him ever, being to him 
Meeker than any child to a rough nurse, 
Milder than any mother to a sick child, 
And never woman yet, since man's first 

fall, 



ELAINE. 



297 



Did kindlier unto man, but her deep 

love 
Upbore her; till the hermit, skill'd in all 
The simples and the science of that 

time, 
Told him that her fine care had saved 

his life. 
And the sick man forgot her simple 

blush, 
Would call her friend and sister, sweet 

Elaine, 
Would listen for her coming and regret 
Her parting step, and held her tenderly, 
And loved her with all love except the 

love 
Of man and woman when they love 

their best 
Closest and sweetest, and had died the 

death 
In any knightly fashion for her sake. 
And peradventure had he seen her first 
She might have made this and that 

other world 
Another world for the sick man ; but 

now 
The shackles of an old love straiten'd 

him, 
His honor rooted in dishonor stood, 
And faith unfaithful kept him falsely 
*— true. 

Yet the great knight in his mid-sick- 
ness made 
Full many a holy vow and pure resolve. 
These, as but born of sickness, could 

not live : 
For when the blood ran lustier in him 

again, 
Full often the sweet image of one face, 
Making a treacherous quiet in his 

heart, 
Dispersed his resolution like a cloud. 
Then if the maiden, while that ghostly 

grace 
Beam'd on his fancy, spoke, he an- 

swer'd not, 
Or short and coldly, and she knew 

right well 
What the rough sickness meant, but 

what this meant 
She knew not, and the sorrow dimm'd 

her sight, 
And drave her ere her time across the 

fields 



Far into the rich city, where alone 
She murmur'd, " Vain, in vain : it can- 
not be. 
He will not love me : how then ? must 

I die?" 
Then as a little helpless innocent bird, 
That has but one plain passage of few 

notes, 
Will sing the simple passage o'er and 

o'er 
For all an April morning, till the ear 
Wearies to hear it, so the simple maid 
Went half the night repeating, " Must 

I die?" 
And now to right she turn'd, and now 

to left, 
And found no ease in turning or in rest ; 
And "him or death" she mutter'd, 

"death or him," 
Again and like a burthen, " him or 

death." 

But when Sir Lancelot's deadly hurt 

was whole, 
To Astolat returning rode the three. 
There morn by morn, arraying her 

sweet self 
In that wherein she deem'd she look'd 

her best, 
She came before Sir Lancelot, for she 

thought 
"If I be loved, these are my festal 

robes, 
If not, the victim's flowers before he 

fall." 
And Lancelot ever prest upon the maid 
That she should ask some goodly gift 

of him 
For her own self or hers ; " and do not 

shun 
To speak the wish most near to your 

true heart ; 
Such service have you done me, that I 

make 
My will of yours, and Prince and Lord 

am I 
In mine own land, and what I will I 

can." 
Then like a ghost she lifted up her face, 
But like a ghost without the power to 

speak. 
And Lancelot saw that she withheld 

her wish, 
And bode among then! yfct a little space 



298 



ELAINE. 



Till he should learn It ; and one morn 

it chanced 
He found her in among the garden 

yews, 
And said, " Delay no longer, speak 

your wish, 
Seeing I must go to-day": then out 

she brake ; 
" Going ? and we shall never see you 

more. 
And I must die for want of one bold 

word. " 
"Speak : that I live to hear," he said, 

" is yours." 
Then suddenly and passionately she 

spoke : 
" I have gone mad. I love you : let 

me die." 
" Ah sister," answer'd Lancelot, "what 

is this ?" 
And innocently extending her white 

arms, 
"Your love," she said, "your love — 

to be your wife." 
And Lancelot answer'd, " Had I chos'n 

to wed, 
I had been wedded earlier, sweet 

Elaine : 
But now there never will be wife of 

mine." 
" No, no," she cried, " I care not to be 

wife, 
But to be with you still, to see your face, 
To serve you, and to follow you thro' 

the world." 
And Lancelot answer'd, " Nay, the 

world, the world, 
All ear and eye, with such a stupid 

heart 
To interpret ear and eye, and such a 

tongue 
To blare its own interpretation — nay, 
Full ill then should I quit your broth- 
er's love, 
And your good father's kindness." 

And she said, 
" Not to be with you, not to see your 

face — 
Alas for me then, my good days are 

done." 
" Nay, noble maid," he answer'd, " ten 

times nay ! 
I This is not love : but love's first flash 

in youth, 



Most common : yea I know It of mine 

own self: 
And you yourself will smile at your own 

self 
; Hereafter, when you yield your flowed 

of life 
To one more fitly yours, not thrice 

your age : 
And then will I, for true you are and' 

sweet 
Beyond mine old belief in womanhood, 
More specially should your good 

knight be poor, 
Endow you with broad land and terri- 
tory 
Even to the half my realm beyond the 

sea's, 
So that would make you happy: fur- 
thermore, 
Ev'n to the death, as tho' you were my 

blood, 
In all your quarrels will I be your 

knight. 
This will I do, dear damsel, for your 

sake, 
And more than this I cannot." 

While he spoke 
She neither blush'd nor shook, but 

deathly-pale 
Stood grasping what was nearest, then 

replied, 
" Of all this will I nothing " ; and so fell, 
And thus they bore her swooning to 

her tower. 

Then spake, to whom thro' those 

black walls of yew 
Their talk had pierced, her father, 

" Ay, a flash, 
I fear me, that will strike my blossom 

dead. 
Too courteous are you, fair Lord Lance- 
lot. 
I pray you, use some rough discourtesy 
To blunt or break her passion." 

Lancelot said, 
"That were against me : what I can I 

will " ; 
And there that day remain 'd, and 

toward even 
Sent for his shield : full meekly rose 

the maid, 
Stript off the case, and gave the naked 

shield ; 



ELAINE. 



299 



Then, when she heard his horse upon 

the stones, 
Unclasping flung the casement back, 

and look'd 
Down on his helm, rrom which her 

sleeve had gone. 
And Lancelot knew the little clinking 

sound ; 
And she by tact of love was well aware 
That Lancelot knew that she was look- 
ing at him. 
And yet he glanced not up, nor waved 

his hand, 
Nor bade farewell, but sadly rode away. 
This was the one discourtesy that he 

used. 

So in her tower alone the maiden 

sat: 
His very shield was gone ; only the 

case, 
Her own poor work, her empty labor, 

left. 
But still she heard him, still his picture 

form'd 
And grew between her and the pictured 

wall. 
Then came her father, saying in low 

tones 
" Have comfort," whom she greeted 

quietly. 
Then came her brethren saying, " Peace 

to thee 
Sweet sister," whom she answer'd 

with all calm. 
But when they left her to herself 

again, 
Death, like a friend's voice from a dis- 
tant field 
Approaching thro' the darkness, call'd ; 

the owls 
Wailing had power upon her, and she 

mixt 
Her fancies with the sallow-rifted 

glooms 
Of evening, and the moanings of the 

wind. 

And in those days she made a little 

song, 
And call'd her song " The Song of 

Love and Death," 
And sang it : sweetly could she make 

and sing. 



" Sweet is true love, tho' given in 
vain, in vain ; 
And sweet is death who puts an end to 

pain : 
I know not which is sweeter, no, not I. 

"Love, art thou sweet? then bitter 
death must be : 
Love, thou art bitter ; sweet is death 
to me. 

Love, if death be sweeter, let me 

die. 

" Sweet Love, that seems not made 
to fade away, 
Sweet death, that seems to make us 
loveless clay, 

1 know not which is sweeter, no, not I. 

" I fain would follow love, if that 

could be ; 
I needs must follow death, who calls 

for me ; 
Call and I follow, I follow ! let me die." 

High with the last line scaled her 

voice, and this, 
All in a fiery dawning wild with wind 
That shook ' her tower, the brothers 

heard, and thought 
With shuddering, "Hark the Phantom 

of the house 
That ever shrieks before a death," and 

call'd 
The father, and all three in hurry and 

fear 
Ran to her, and lo ! the bloodied light 

of dawn 
Flared on her face, she shrilling " Let 

me die ! " 

As when we dwell upon a word we 

know 
Repeating, till the word we know so 

well 
Becomes a wonder and we know not 

why, 
So dwelt the father on her face and 

thought 
" Is this Elaine ? " till back the maiden 

fell, 
Then gave a languid hand to each, and 

lay, 



3 oo 



ELAINE. 



Speaking a still good-morrow with her 

eyes. 
At last she said, " Sweet brothers, yes- 
ternight 
I seem'd a curious little maid again, 
As happy as when we dwelt among the 

woods, 
And when you used to take me with 

the flood _ 
Up the great river in the boatman's 

boat. 
Only you would not pass beyond the 

cape 
That has the poplar on it : there you 

fixt 
Your limit, oft returning with the tide. 
And yet I cried because you would not 

pass 
Beyond it, and far up the shining flood 
Until we found the palace of the king. 
And yet you would not ; but this night 

I dream'd 
That I was all alone upon the flood, 
And then I said, ' Now shall I have 

my will ' : 
And there I woke, but still the wish 

remain'd. 
So let me hence that I may pass at 

last 
Beyond the poplar and far up the flood, 
Until I find the palace of the king. 
There will I enter in among them all, 
And no man there will dare to mock at 

me ; 
But there the fine Gawain will wonder 

at me, 
And there the great Sir Lancelot muse 

at me ; 
Gawain, who bade a thousand farewells 

to me, 
Lancelot, who coldly went nor bade me 

one : 
And there the King will know me and 

my love, 
And there the Queen herself will pity 

me, 
And all the gentle court will welcome 

me, 
And after my long voyage I shall rest !" 

" Peace," said her father, " O my 
child, you seem 
Light-headed, for what force is yours 
to go, 



So far, being sick ? and wherefore would 

you look 



you look 
On this proud fellow again, who 
us all ? " 



scorns 



Then the rough Torre began to heave 

and move, 
And bluster into stormy sobs and say, 
" I never loved him : an I meet with 

him, 
I care not howsoever great he be, 
Then will I strike at him and strike 

him down. 
Give me good fortune, I will strike him 

dead, 
For this discomfort he hath done the 

house." 

To which the gentle sister made re- 
ply, 
" Fret not yourself, dear brother, nor 

be wroth, 
Seeing it is no more Sir Lancelot's fault 
Not to love me, than it is mine to love 
Him of all men who seems to me the 
highest." 

" Highest ? " the Father answer'd, 

echoing "highest." 
(He meant to break the passion in her.) 

" Nay, 
Daughter, I know not what you call 

the highest ; 
But this I know, for all the people 

know it, 
He loves the Queen, and in an open 

shame : 
And she returns his love in open shame. 
If this be high, what is it to be low? " 

Then spake the lily maid of Astolat : 
" Sweet father, all too faint and sick 

am I 
For anger : these are slanders : never 

yet 

i Was noble man but made ignoble talk. 

/ He makes no friend who never made a 

foe. 

But now it is my glory to. have loved 

One peerless, without stain : so let me 

pass, 
My father, howsoe'er I seem to you, 
Not all unhappy, having loved God's 
best v 






ELAINE. 



301 



And greatest, tho' my love had no re- 
turn : 
Yet, seeing you desire your child to 

live, 
Thanks, but you work against your own 

desire ; 
For if I could believe the things you 

say 
I should but die the sooner ; wherefore 

cease, 
Sweet father, and bid call the ghostly 

man 
Hither, and let me shrive me clean, 

and die." 

So when the ghostly man had come 
and gone, 

She with a face, bright as for sin for- 
given, 

Besought Lavaine to write as she de- 
vised 

A letter, word for word ; and when he 
ask'd 

" Is it for Lancelot, is it for my dear 
lord? 

Then will I bear it gladly " ; she re- 



plied, 
La 



" For Lancelot and the Queen and all 

the world, 
But I myself must bear it." Then he 

wrote 
The letter she devised ; which being 

writ 
And folded, " O sweet father, tender 

and true, 
Deny me not," she said — " you never 

yet 
Denied my fancies — this, however 

strange, 
My latest : lay the letter in my hand 
A little ere I die, and close the hand 
Upon it ; I shall guard it even in death. 
And when the heat, is gone from out 

my heart, 
Then take the little bed on which I 

died 
For Lancelot's love, and deck it like 

the Queen's 
For richness, and me also like the 

Queen 
In all I have of rich, and lay me on 

it. 
And let there be prepared a chariot- 
bier 



To take me to the river, and a barge 
Be ready on the river, clothed in black. 
I go in state to court, to meet the 

Queen. 
There surely I shall speak for mine own 

self, 
And none of you can speak for me so 

well. 
And therefore let our dumb old man 

alone 
Go with me, he can steer and row, and 

he 
Will guide me to that palace, to the 

doors." 

She ceased : her father promised ; 

whereupon 
She grew so cheerful that they deem'd 

her death 
Was rather in the fantasy than the 

blood. 
But ten slow mornings past, and on the 

eleventh 
Her father laid the letter in her hand, 
And closed the hand upon it, and she 

died. 
So that day there was dole in Astolat. 

But when the next sun brake from 

underground, 
Then, those two brethren slowly with 

bent brows 
Accompanying, the sad chariot-bier 
Past like a shadow thro' the field, that 

shone 
Full-summer, to that stream whereon 

the barge, 
Pall'd all its length in blackest samite, 

lay. 
There sat the lifelong creature of the 

house, 
Loyal, the dumb old servitor, on deck, 
Winking his eyes, and twisted all his 

face. 
So those two brethren from the chariot 

took 
And on the black decks laid her in her 

bed, 
Set in her hand a lily, o'er her hung 
The silken case with braided blazon- 

ings, 
And kiss'd her quiet brows, and saying 

to her, 
" Sister, farewell forever," and again, 



3»* 



ELAINE. 



" Farewell, sweet sister," parted all in 

tears. 
Then rose the dumb old servitor, and 

the dead 
Steer'd by the dumb went upward with 

the flood — 
In her right hand the lily, in her left 
The letter — all her bright hair stream- 
ing down — 
And all the coverlid was cloth of gold 
Drawn to her waist, and she herself in 

white 
All but her face, and that clear-featured 

face 
Was lovely, for she did not seem as 

dead 
But fast asleep, and lay as tho' she 

smiled. 

That day Sir Lancelot at the palace 

craved 
Audience of Guinevere, to give at last 
The price of half a realm, his costly 

gift, 
Hard-won and hardly won with bruise 

and blow, 
With deaths of others, and almost his 

own, 
The nine-years-fought-for diamonds : 

for he saw 
One of her house, and sent him to the 

Queen 
Bearing his wish, whereto the Queen 

agreed 
With such and so unmoved a majesty 
She might have seem'd her statue, but 

that he, 
Low-drooping till he wellnigh kiss'd 

her feet 
For loyal awe, saw with a sidelong 

eye 
The shadow of a piece of pointed lace, 
In the Queen's shadow, vibrate on the 

walls, 
And parted, laughing in his courtly 

heart. 

All in an oriel on the summer side, 
Vine-clad, of Arthur's palace toward 

the stream, 
They met, and Lancelot kneeling ut- 

ter'd, " Queen, 
Lady, my liege, in whom I have my 

joy. 



Take, what I had not won except for 

you, 
These jewels, and make me happy, 

making them 
An armlet for the roundest arm on 

earth, 
Or necklace for a neck to which the 

swan's 
Is tawnier than her cygnet's : these are 

words : 
Your beauty is your beauty, and I sin 
In speaking, yet O grant my worship 

of it 
Words, as we grant grief tears. Such 

sin in words 
Perchance, we both can pardon : but, 

my Queen, 
I hear of rumors flying thro' your court. 
Our bond, is not the bond of man and 

wife, 
Should have in it an absoluter trust 
To make up that defect: let rumors 

be : 
When did not rumors fly ? these, as I 

trust 
That you trust me in your own noble- 
ness, 
I may not well believe that you be- 
lieve." 

While thus he spoke, half turn'd 

away, the Queen 
Brake from the vast oriel-embowering 

vine 
Leaf after leaf, and tore, and cast them 

off, 
Till all the place whereon she stood 

was green ; 
Then, when he ceased, in one cold 

passive hand 
Received at once and laid aside the 

gems 
There on a table near her, and replied : 

" It may be, I am quicker of belief 
Than you believe me, Lancelot of the 

Lake. 
Our bond is not the bond of man and 

wife. 
This good is in it, whatsoe'er of ill, 
It can be broken easier. I for you 
This many a year have done despite 

and wrong 
To one whom ever in my heart of hearts 



ELAINE. 



303 



1 did acknowledge nobler. What are 

, these? 
Diamonds for me ! they had been thrice 

their worth 
Being your gift, had you not lost your 

own. 
To loyal hearts the value of all gifts 
Must vary as the giver's. Not for me ! 
For her 1 for your new fancy. Only this 
Grant me, I pray you : have your joys 

apart. 
I doubt not that however changed, you 

keep 
So much of what is graceful : and myself 
Would shun to break those bounds of 

courtesy 
In which as Arthur's queen I move and 

rule : 
So cannot speak my mind. An end to 

this ! 
A strange one ! yet I take it with Amen. 
So pray you, add my diamonds to her 

pearls ; 
Deck her with these ; tell her, she shines 

me down : 
An armlet for an arm to which the 

Queen's 
Is haggard, or a necklace for a neck 
O as much fairer — as a faith once 

fair 
Was richer than these diamonds — 

hers not mine — 
Nay, by the mother of our Lord him- 
self, 
Or hers or mine, mine now to work my 

will — 
She shall not have them." 

Saying which she seized, 
And, thro' the casement standing wide 

for heat, 
Flung them, and down they fiash'd, 

and smote the stream. 
Then from the smitten surface fiash'd, 

as it were, 
Diamonds to meet them, and they past 

away. 
Then while Sir Lancelot leant, in half 

disgust 
At love, life, all things, on the window 

ledge, 
Close underneath his eyes, and right 

across 
Where these had fallen, slowly past 

the barge 



Whereon the lily maid of Astolat 
Lay smiling, like a star in blackest 
night. 

But the wild Queen, who saw not, 

burst away 
To weep and wail in secret ; and the 

barge 
On to the palace- doorway sliding, 

paused. 
There two stood arm'd, and kept the 

door ; to whom, 
All up the marble stair, tier over tier, 
Were added mouths that gaped, and 

eyes that ask'd 
" What is it ? " but that oarsman's hag- 
gard face, 
As hard and still as is the face that men 
Shape to their fancy's eye from broken 

rocks 
On some cliff-side, appall'd them, and 

they said, 
" He is enchanted, cannot speak — and 

she, 
Look how she sleeps — the Fairy 

Queen, so fair ! 
Yea, but how pale ! what are they ? 

flesh and blood ? 
Or come to take the King to fairy land ? 
For some do hold our Arthur cannotdie, 
But that he passes into fairy land." 

While thus they babbled of the King, 

the King 
Came girt with knights : then turn'd the 

tongueless man 
From the half-face to the full eye, and 

rose 
And pointed to the damsel, and the 

doors. 
So Arthur bade the meek Sir Percivale 
And pure Sir Galahad to uplift the 

maid ; 
And reverently they bore her into hall. 
Then came the fine Gawain and won- 

der'd at her, 
And Lancelot later came and mused at 

her, 
At last the Queen herself and pitied 

her : 
But Arthur spied the letter in her 

hand, 
Stoopt, took, brake seal, and read it; 

this was all : ^ 



3°4 



ELAINE. 



" Most noble lord, Sir Lancelot of 

the Lake, 
I, sometime call'd the maid of Astolat, 
Come, for you left me taking no fare- 
well, 
Hither, to take my last farewell of you. 
I loved you, and my love had no return, 
And therefore my true love has been 

my death. 
And therefore to our lady Guinevere, 
And to all other ladies, I make moan. 
Pray for my soul, and yield me burial. 
Pray for my soul thou too, Sir Lancelot, 
As thou art a knight peerless." 

Thus he read, 
And ever in the reading, lords and 

dames 
Wept, looking often from his face who 

read 
To hers which lay so silent, and at 

times, 
So touch' d were they, half-thinking that 

her lips, 
Who had devised the letter, moved 

again. 

Then freely spoke Sir Lancelot to 

them all : 
" My lord liege Arthur, and all ye that 

hear, 
Know that for this most gentle maiden's 

death 
Right heavy am I ; for good she was 

and true, 
But loved me with a love beyond all 

love 
In women, whomsoever I have known, 
j Yet to be loved makes not to love again ; \ 
' Not at my years, however it hold in 

youth. 
I swear by truth and knighthood that I 

gave 
No cause, not willingly, for such a 

love : 
To this I call my friends in testimony, 
Her brethren, and her father, who him- 
self 
Besought me to be plain and blunt, 

and use, 
To break her passion, some discourtesy 
Against my nature : what I could, I did. 
I left her and I bade her no farewell. 
Tho', had I dreamt the damsel would 

have dkji, 



I might have put my whs to some 

rough use, 
And help'd her from herself." 

Then said the Queen 
(Sea was her wrath, yet working after 

storm ), 
" You might at least have done her so 

much grace, 
Fair lord, as would have help'd her 

from her death." 
He raised his head, their eyes met and 

hers fell, 
He adding, 

" Queen, she would not be content 
Save that I wedded her, which could 

not be. 
Then might she follow me thro' the 

world, she ask'd ; 
It could not be. I told her that her love 
Was but the flash of youth, would 

darken down 
To rise hereafter in a stiller flame 
Toward one more worthy of her — then 

would I, 
More specially were he, she wedded, 

poor, 
Estate them with large land and terri- 
tory 
In mine own realm beyond the narrow 

seas, 
To keep them in all joyance : more 

than this 
I could not ; this she would not, and 

she died." 

He pausing, Arthur answer' d, " O 
my knight, 

It will be to your worship, as my I] 
knight, 

And mine, as head of all our Table 
Round, 

To see that she be buried worship- 
fully." 

So toward that shrine which then in 
all the realm 

Was richest, Arthur leading, slowly 
went 

The marshall'd order of their Table 
Round, 

And Lancelot sad beyond his wont, to 
see 

The maiden buried, not as one un- 
known, 



ELAINE. 



305 



tfor meanly, but with gorgeous ob- 
sequies, 

\nd mass, and rolling music, like a 
Queen. 

\nd when the knights had laid her 
comely head 

Low in the dust of half- forgotten kings, 

Then Arthur spake among them, " Let 
her tomb 

3e costly, and her image thereupon. 

Ind let the shield of Lancelot at her 
feet 

3e carven, and her lily in her hand. 

\nd let the story of her dolorous voy- 
age 

For all true hearts be blazon'd on her 
tomb 

[n letters gold and azure 1 " which was 
wrought 

Thereafter ; but when now the lords 
and dames 

<\.nd people, from the high door stream- 
ing, brake 

Disorderly, as homeward each, the 
Queen, 

Who mark'd Sir Lancelot where he 
moved apart, 

Drew near, and sigh'd in passing 
" Lancelot, 

Forgive me ; mine was jealousy in love. " 

He answer'd with his eyes upon the 
ground, 

" That is love's curse ; pass on, my 
Queen, forgiven." 

But Arthur who beheld his cloudy 
brows 

Approach'd him, and with full affection 
flung 

One arm about his neck, and spake and 
said : 

" Lancelot, my Lancelot, thou in 
whom I have 
Most joy and most affiance, for I know 
What thou hast been in battle by my 

side, 
And manv a time have watch'd thee at 

the' tilt 
Strike down the lusty and long-prac- 
tised knight, 
And let the younger and unskill'd go by 
To win his honor and to make his name, 
And loved thy courtesies and thee, a 
man 



Made to be loved ; — but now I would 

to God, 
For the wild people say wild things of 

thee, 
Thou couldst have loved this maiden, 

shaped, it seems, 
By God for thee alone, and from her 

face, 
If one may judge the living by the dead, 
Delicately pure and marvellously fair, 
Who might have brought thee, now a 

lonely man 
Wifeless and heirless, noble issue, sons 
Born to the glory of thy name and fame, 
My knight, the great Sir Lancelot of 

the Lake." 

Then answer'd Lancelot, " Fair she 

was, my King, 
Pure, as you ev»r wish your knights 

to be. 
To doubt her fairness were to want an 

eye, 
To doubt her pureness were to want a 

heart, — 
Yea, to be loved, if what is worthy love 
Could bind him, but free love will not 

be bound." 

" Free love, so bound, were freest," 

said the King. 
" Let love be free ; free love is for the 

best : 
And, after heaven, on our dull side of 

death, 
What should be best, if not so pure a 

love 
Clothed in so pure a loveliness? yet 

thee 
Shefail'dtobind, tho' being, as I think, 
Unbound as yet, andgentle, as I know." 

And Lancelot answer'd nothing, but 

he went, 
And at the inrunning of a little brook 
Sat by the river in a cove, and watch'd 
The high reed wave, and lifted up his 

eyes 
And saw the barge that brought her 

moving down, 
Far-off, a blot upon the stream, and 

said 
Low in himself, " Ah simple heart and 

sweet, 



3°6 



GUINE 



You loved me, damsel, surely with a 

love 
Far tenderer than my Queen's. Pray 

for thy soul ? 
Ay, that will I. Farewell too— now at 

last — 
Farewell, fair lily. ' Jealousy in love ' ? 
Not rather dead love's harsh heir, jeal- 
ous pride ? 
Queen, if 1 grant the jealousy as oflove, 
May not your crescent fear for name 

and fame 
Speak, as it waxes, of a love that wanes? 
Why did the King dwell on my name 

to me ? 
Mine own name shames me, seeming a 

reproach, 
Lancelot, whom the Lady of the lake 
Stole from his mother — as the story 

runs — 
She chanted snatches of mysterious 

song 
Heard on the winding waters, eve and 

morn 
She kiss'd me saying thou art fair, my 

child, 
As a king's son, and often in her arms 
She bare me, pacing on the dusky mere. 
Would she had drown'd me in it, 

where'er it be ! 
For what am I ? what profits me my 

name 
Of greatest knight? I fought for it, 

and have it : 
Pleasure to have it, none ; to lose it, 

pain ; 
Now grown a part of me : but what use 

in it ? 
To make men worse by making my sin 

known ? 
Or sin seem less, the sinner seeming 

Alas lor Arthur's greatest knight, a 

man 
Not after Arthur's heart ! I needs must 

break 
These bonds that so defame me : not 

without 
She wills it : would I, if she will'd it? 

nay, 
Who knows ? but if I would not, then 

may ( rod, 
I pray him, send a sudden Angel down 
To sei/.e me by the hair and bear me far, 



VERE. 

And fling me deep in that forgotten 

mere, 
Among the tumbled fragments of the 

hills." 

So groan'd Sir Lancelot in remorse- 
ful pain, 
Not knowing he should die a holy man. 



GUINEVERE. 

Queen Guinevere had fled the court, 

and sat 
There in the holy house at Almesbury 
Weeping, none with her save a little 

maid, 
A novice : one low light betwixt them 

burn'd 
Blurr'd by the creeping mist, for all 

abroad, 
Beneath a moon unseen albeit at full, 
The white mist, like a face-cloth to the 

face, 
Clung to the dead earth, and the land 

was still. 

For hither had she fled, her cause of 

flight 
Sir Modred ; he the nearest to the 

King, 
His nephew, ever like a subtle beast 
Lay couchant with his eyes upon the 

throne, 
Ready to spring, waiting a chance : for 

this, 
He chili'd the popular praises of the 

King 
With silent smiles of slow disparage- 
ment ; 
And tamper' d with the Lords of the 

White Horse, 
Heathen, the brood by Hengist left ; 

and sought 
To make disruption in the Table Round 
Of Arthur, and to splinter it into feuds 
Serving his traitorous end ; and all his 

aims 
Were sharpen'd by strong hate for 

Lancelot. 

For thus it chanced one morn when 
all the court, 



GUINEVERE. 



307 



Green-suited, "but with plumes that 

mock'd the May, 
Had been, their wont, a-maying and 

return'd, 
That Modred still in green, all ear and 

eye, 
Climb'd to the high top of the garden- 
wall 
To spy some secret scandal if he might, 
And saw the Queen who sat betwixt 

her best 
Enid, and lissome Vivien, of her court 
The wiliest and the worst ; and more 

than this 
He saw not, for Sir Lancelot passing by 
Spied where he couch d, and as the 

gardener's hand 
Picks from the cole wort a green cater- 
pillar, 
So from the high wall and the flowering 

grove 
Of grasses Lancelot pluck'd him by 

the heel, 
And cast him as a worm upon the way ; 
But when he knew the Prince tho' 

marr'd with dust, 
He, reverencing king's blood in a bad 

man, 
Made such excuses as he might, and 

these 
Full knightly without scorn ; for in 

those days 
No knight of Arthur's noblest dealt in 

scorn ; 
But, if a man were halt or hunch'd, in 

him 
By those whom God had made full- 

limb'd and tall, 
Scorn was allow'd as part of his defect, 
And he was answer'd softly by the King 
And all his Table. So Sir Lancelot 

holp 
To raise the Prince, who rising twice 

or thrice 
Full sharply smote his knees, and 

smiled, and went : 
But, ever after, the small violence done 
Rankled in him and ruffled all his 

heart, 
As the sharp wind that ruffles all day 

long 
A little bitter pool about a stone 
On the bare coast. 

But when Sir Lancelot told 



This matter to the Queen, at first she 

laugh'd 
Lightly, to think of Modred's dusty 

fall, 
Then shudder' d, as the village wife who 

cries 
" I shudder, some one steps across my 

grave " ; 
Then laugh'd again, but faintlier, for 

indeed 
She half-foresaw that he, the subtle 

beast, 
Would track her guilt until he found, 

and hers 
Would be forevermore a name of scorn. 
Henceforward rarely could she front in 

Hall, 
Or elsewhere, Modred's narrow foxy 

face, 
Heart-hiding smile, and gray persistent 

eye : 
Henceforward too, the Powers that 

tend the soul, 
To help it from the death that cannot 

die, 
And save it even in extremes, began 
To vex and plague her. Many a time 

for hours, 
Beside the placid breathings of the 

King, 
In the dead night, grim faces came and 

went 
Before her, or a vague spiritual fear — 
Like to some doubtful noise of creak- 
ing doors, 
Heard by the watcher in a haunted 

house, 
That keeps the rust of murder on the 

walls — 
Held her awake : or if she slept, she 

dream'd 
An awful dream ; for then she seem'd 

to stand 
On some vast plain before a setting sun, 
And from the sun there swiftly made at 

her 
A ghastly something, and its shadow 

flew 
Before it, till it touch' d her, and she 

turn'd — 
When lo ! her own, that broadening 

from her feet, 
And blackening, swallow'd all the land, 

and in it 



308 



GUINEVERE. 



Far cities burnt, and with a cry she 

woke. 
And all this trouble did not pass but 

grew; 
Till ev'n the clear face of the guileless 

King, 
And trustful courtesies of household 

life, 
Became her bane ; and at the last she 

said, 
" O Lancelot, get thee hence to thine 

own land, 
For if thou tarry we shall meet again, 
And if we meet again, some evil chance 
Will make the smouldering scandal 

break and blaze 
Before the people, and our lord the 

King." 
And Lancelot ever promised, but re- 

main'd, 
And still they met and met. Again 

she said, 
" O Lancelot, if thou love me get thee 

hence." 
And then they were agreed upon a 

night 
(When the good King should not be 

there) to meet 
And part forever. Passion-pale they 

met 
And greeted : hands in hands, and eye 

to eye, 
Low on the border of her couch they 

sat 
Stammering and staring ; it was their 

last hour, 
A madness of farewells. And Modred 

brought 
His creatures to the basement of the 

tower 
For testimony; and crying with full 

voice, 
"Traitor, come out, ye are trapt at 

last," aroused 
Lancelot, who rushing outward lion- 
like 
Leapt on him, and hurl'd him head- 
long, and he fell 
Stunn'd, and his creatures took and 

bare him off 
And all was still : then she, "The end 

is come 
And I am shamed forever " ; and he 

said, 



" Mine be the shame ; mine was the 

sin : but rise, 
And fly to my strong castle overseas : 
There will I hide thee, till my life shall 

end, 
There hold thee with my life against 

the world." 
She answer' d, "Lancelot, wilt thou hold 

me so ? 
Nay friend, for we have taken our fare- 
wells. 
Would God, that thou couldst hide 

me from myself! 
Mine is the shame, for I was wife, and 

thou 
Unwedded: yet rise now, and let us 

fly, 
For I will draw me into sanctuary, 
And bide my doom." So Lancelot got 

her horse, 
Set her thereon, and mounted on his 

own, 
And then they rode to the divided way, 
There kiss'd, and parted weeping : for 

he past, 
Love-loyal to the least wish of the 

Queen, 
Back to his land ; but she to Almes- 

bury 
Fled all night long by glimmering waste 

and weald, 
And heard the Spirits of the waste and 

weald 
Moan as she fled, or thought she heard 

them moan : 
And in herself she moan'd, "Too late, 

too late ! " 
Till in the cold wind that foreruns the 

morn, 
A blot in heaven, the Raven, flying 

high, 
Croak'd, and she thought, " He spies a 

field of death ; 
For now the heathen of the Northern 

Sea, 
Lured by the crimes and frailties of the 

court, 
Begin to slay the folk, and spoil the 

land." 

And when she came to Almesbury 
she spake 
There to the nuns, and said, " Mine 
enemies 



GUINEVERE. 



309 



Pursue me, but, O peaceful Sisterhood, 
Receive, and yield me sanctuary, norask 
Her name, to whom ye yield it, till her 

time 
To tell you " : and her beauty, grace, 

and power, 
Wrought as a charm upon them, and 

they spared 
To ask it. 

So the stately Queen abode 
For many a week, unknown, among the 

nuns ; 
Nor with them mix'd, nor told her 

name, nor sought, 
Wrapt in her grief, for housel or for 

shrift, 
But communed only with the little 

maid, 
Who pleased her with a babbling heed- 
lessness 
Which often lured her from herself; 

but now, 
This night, a rumor wildly blown about 
Came, that Sir Modred had usurp'd 

the realm, 
And leagued him with the heathen, 

while the King 
Was waging war on Lancelot : then she 

thought, 
" With what a hate the people and the 

King 
Must hate me," and bow'd down upon 

her hands 
Silent, until the little maid, who brook'd 
No silence, brake it, uttering " Late ! 

so late ! 
What hour, I wonder, now?" and 

when she drew 
No answer, by and by began to hum 
An air the nuns had taught her ; " Late, 

so late ! " 
Which when she heard, the Queen 

look'd up, and said, 
" O maiden, if indeed you list to sing, 
Sing, and unbind my heart that I may 

weep." 
Whereat full willingly sang the little 

maid. 

" Late, late, so late ! and dark the 
night and chill ! 
Late, late, so late ! but we can enter 

still. 
Too late, too late ! ye cannot enter now. 



"No light had we : for that we do 

repent ; 
And learning this, the bridegroom will 

relent. 
Too late, too late ! ye cannot enter 

now. 

" No light : so late ! and dark and 

chill the night ! 
O let us in, that we may find the light ! 
Too late, too late ! ye cannot enter 

now. 

" Have we not heard the bridegroom 
is so sweet ? 
O let us in,*tho' late, to kiss his feet ! 
No, no, too late ! ye cannot enter now." 

So sang the novice, while full passion- 
ately, • 

Her head upon her hands, remember- 
ing 

Her thought when first she came, wept 
the sad Queen. 

Then said the little novice prattling to 
her : 

" O pray you, noble lady, weep no 

more ; 
But let my words, the words of one so 

small, 
Who knowing nothing knows but to 

obey, 
And if I do not there is penance giv- 
en — 
Comfort your sorrows ; for they do not 

flow 
From evil done ; right sure am I of 

that, 
Who see your tender grace and stateli- 

ness. 
But weigh your sorrows with our lord 

the King's, 
And weighing find them less ; for gone 

is he 
To wage grim war against Sir Lancelot 

"there, 
Round that strong castle where he 

holds the Queen ; 
And Modred whom he left in charge of 

all, 
The traitor — Ah sweet lady, the King's 

grief 
For his own self, and his own Queen, 

and realm, 



3io 



GUINEVERE. 



Must needs be thrice as great as any 

of ours. 
For me, I thank the saints I am not 

great. , 

For if there ever come a grief to me 
I cry my cry in silence, and have done : 
None knows it, and my tears ha*:e 

brought me good. 
But even were the griefs of little ones 
As great as those of great ones, yet this 

grief 
Is added to the griefs the great must 

bear, 
That howsoever much they may desire 
Silence, they cannot weep behind a 

cloud : 
As even here they talk at Almesbury 
About the good King and his wicked 

* Queen, 
And were I such a King with such a 

Queen, 
Well might I wish to veil her wicked- 
ness, 
But were I such a King, it could not 

be." 

Then to her own sad heart mutter'd 
the Queen, 

" Will the child kill me with her inno- 
cent talk?" 

But openly she answer'd, " Must not I, 

If this false traitor have displaced his 
lord, 

Grieve with the common grief of all the 
realm ? " 

"Yea," said the maid, "this is all 

woman's grief, 
That she is woman, whose disloyal life 
Hath wrought confusion in the Table 

Round 
Which good King Arthur founded, 

years ago, 
With signs and miracles and wonders, 

there 
At Camelot, ere the coming of the 

Queen." 

Then thought the Queen within her- 
self again, 
" Will the child kill me with her fool- 
ish prate? " 
But openly she spake and said to 
- her, 



"O little maid, shut in by nunnery 

walls, 
What canst thou know of Kings and 

Tables Round, 
Or what of signs and wonders, but the 

signs 
And simple miracles of thy nunnery?" 

To whom the little novice garrulous- 
ly : 

" Yea, but I know : the land was full of 
signs 

And wonders ere the coming of the 
Queen. 

So said- my father, and himself was 
knight 

Of the great Table — at the founding 
of it : 

And rode thereto from Lyonnesse, and 
he said 

That as he rode, an hour or may be 
twain 

After the sunset, down the coast, he 
heard 

Strange music, and he paused and 
turning — there, 

All down the lonely coast of Lyon- 
nesse, 

Each with a beacon-star upon his head, 

And with a wild sea-light about his 
feet, 

He saw them — headland after head- 
land flame 

Far on into the rich heart of the west : 

And in the light the white mermaiden 
swam, 

And strong man-breasted things stood 
from the sea, 

And sent a deep sea-voice thro' all the 
land, 

To which the little elves of chasm and 
cleft 

Made answer, sounding like a distant 
horn. 

So said my father — yea, and further- 
more, 

Next morning, while he past the dim-lit 
woods, 

Himself beheld three spirits mad with 

Come dashing down on a tall wayside 

flower, 
That shook beneath them, as the thistle 

shakes 



GUINEVERE. 



3" 



When three gray linnets wrangle for 

the seed : 
And still at evenings on before his 

horse 
The flickering fairy-circle wheel' d and 

broke 
Flying, and link'd again, and wheel'd 

and broke 
Flying, for all the land was full of life. 
And when at last he came to Camelot, 
A wreath of airy dancers hand-in-hand 
Swung round the lighted lantern of the 

hall ; 
And in the hall itself was such a feast 
As never man had dream'd ; for every 

knight 
Had whatsoever meat he long'd for 

served 
By hands unseen ; and even as he said 
Down in the cellars merry bloated 

things 
Shoulder'd the spigot, straddling on 

the butts 
While the wine ran : so glad were spirits 

and men 
Before the coming of the sinful Queen." 

Then spake the Queen, and somewhat 

bitterly, 
" Were they so glad ? ill prophets were 

they all, 
Spirits and men : could none of them 

foresee. 
Not even thy wise father with his signs 
And wonders, what has falPn upon the 

realm ? " 

To whom the novice garrulously 

again : 
" Yea, one, a bard ; of whom my father 

said, 
Full many a noble war-song had he 

sung, 
Ev'n in the presence of an enemy's 

fleet, 
Between the steep cliff and the coming 

wave ; 
And many a mystic lay of life and death 
Had chanted on the smoky mountain- 
tops, 
When round him bent the spirits of the 

hills 
With all their dewy hair blown back 

like flame : 



So said my father — and that night the 

bard 
Sang Arthur's glorious wars, and sang 

the King 
As wellnigh more than man, and rail'd 

at those 
Who call'd him the false son of Gorloi's : 
For there was no man knew from 

whence he came ; 
But after tempest, when the long wave 

broke 
All down the thundering shores of 

Bude and Bos, 
There came a day as still as heaven, 

and then 
They found a naked child upon the 

sands 
Of dark Dundagil by the Cornish sea ; 
And that was Arthur ; and they foster'd 

him 
Till he by miracle was approven king : 
And that his grave should be a mystery 
From all men, like his birth ; and could 

he find 
A woman in her womanhood as great 
As he was in his manhood, then, he 

sang, 
The twain together well might change 

the world. 
But even in the middle of his song 
He falter' d, and his hand fell from the 

harp, 
And pale he turn'd, and reel'd, and 

would have fall'n, 
But that they stay'd him up ; nor would 

he tell 
His vision ; but what doubt that he 

foresaw 
This evil work of Lancelot and the 

Queen?" 

Then thought the Queen, " Lo ! they 
have set her on, 

Our simple-seeming Abbess and her 
nuns, 

To play upon me," and bow'd her head 
nor spake. 

Whereat the novice crying, with clasp'd 
hands, 

Shame on her own garrulity garru- 
lously, 

Said the good nuns would check her 
gadding tongue 

Full often, ''And, sweet lady, if. I seem 



3 I2 



GUINEVERE. 



To vex an ear too *sad to listen to me, 
Unmannerly, with prattling and the 

tales 
Which my good father told me, check 

me too : 
Nor let me shame my father's memory, 

one 
Of noblest manners, tho' himself would 

say 
Sir Lancelot had the noblest ; and he 

died, 
Kill'd in a tilt, come next, five summers 

back, 
And left me ; but of others who remain, 
And of the two first-famed for courte- 
sy — 
And pray you check me if I ask amiss — 
But pray you, which had noblest, while 

you moved 
Among them, Lancelot or our lord the 

King?" 

Then the pale Queen look'd up and 

answer' d her, 
" Sir Lancelot, as became a noble 

knight, 
Was gracious to all ladies, and the same 
In open battle or the tilting-field 
Forbore his own advantage, and the 

King 
In open battle or the tilting-field 
Forbore his own advantage, and these 

two 
Were the most nobly -manner' d men of 

all; 
For manners are not idle, but the fruit 
Of loyal nature, and of noble mind." 

"Yea," said the maid, "be manners 
such fair fruit ? 
Then Lancelot's needs must be a thou- 
sand-fold 
Less noble, being, as all rumor runs. 
The most disloyal friend in all the 
world." 

To which a mournful answer made 
the Queen, 

14 O closed about by narrowing nun- 
nery-walls, 

What knowest thou of the world, and 
all its lights 

And shadows, all the wealth and all 
the woe ? 



If ever Lancelot, that most noble 
knight, 

Were for one hour less noble than him- 
self 

Pray for him that he scape the doom of 
fire, 

And weep for her, who drew him to 
his doom." 

"Yea," said the little novice, "I 

pray for both ; 
But I should all as soon believe that 

his, 
Sir Lancelot's, were as noble as the 

King's, 
As I could think, sweet lady, yours 

would be 
Such as they are, were you the sinful 

Queen." 

So she, like many another babbler, 

hurt 
Whom she would soothe, and harm'd 

where she would heal ; 
For here a sudden flush of wrathful 

heat 
Fired all the pale face of the Queen, 

who cried, 
" Such as thou art be never maiden 

more 
Forever ! thou their tool, set on to 

plague 
And play upon, and harry me, petty spy 
And traitress." When that storm of 

anger brake 
From Guinevere, aghast the maiden 

rose, 
White as her veil, and stood before the 

Queen 
As tremulously as foam upon the beach 
Stands in a wind, ready to break and 

fly, 

And when the Queen had added " Get 
thee hence ! " 

Fled frighted. Then that other left 
alone 

Sigh'd, and began to gather heart again, 

Saying in herself, " The simple, fearful 
child 

Meant nothing, but my own too-fearful 
guilt 

Simpler than any child, betrays itself. 

But help me, heaven, for surely 1 re- 
pent. 



GUINEVERE. 



3i3 



For what is true repentance but in 

thought — 
Not ev'n in inmost thought to think 

again 
The sins that made the past so pleasant 

to us : 
And I have sworn never to see him 

more, 
To see him more." 

And ev'n in saying this, 
Her memory from old habit of the mind 
Went slipping back upon the golden 

days 
In which she saw him first, when Lan- 
celot came, 
Reputed the best knight and goodliest 

man, 
Ambassador, to lead her to his lord 
Arthur, and led her forth, and far ahead 
Of his and her retinue moving, they, 
Rapt in sweet talk or lively, all on love 
And sport and tilts and pleasure, (for 

the time 
Was maytime, and as yet no sin was 

dream'd, ) 
Rode under groves that look'd a para- 
dise 
Of blossom, over sheets of hyacinth 
That seem'd the heavens upbreaking 

thro' the earth, 
And on from hill to hill, and every 

day 
Beheld at noon in some delicious dale 
The silk pavilions of King Arthur 

raised 
For brief repast or afternoon repose 
By couriers gone before ; and on again, 
Till yet once more ere set of sun they 

saw 
The Dragon of the great Pendragon- 

ship, 
That crown'd the state pavilion of the 

King, 
Blaze by the rushing brook or silent 

well. 

But when the Queen immersed in 
such a trance, 

And moving thro' the past uncon- 
sciously, 

Came to that point, when first she saw 
the King 

Ride toward her from the city, sigh'd 
to find 



Her journey done, glanced at him, 

thought him cold, 
High, seif-contain'd, and passionless, 

not like him, 
"Not like my Lancelot" — while she 

brooded thus 
And grew half-guilty in her thoughts 

again, 
There rode an armed warrior to the 

doors. 
A murmuring whisper thro' the nun- 
nery ran, 
Then on a sudden a cry, " The King." 

She sat 
Stiff-stricken, listening ; but when 

armed feet 
Thro' the long gallery from the outer 

doors 
Rang coming, prone from off her seat 

she fell, 
And grovell'd with her face against the 

floor: 
There with her milkwhite arms and 

shadowy hair 
She made her face a darkness from the 

King : 
And in the darkness heard his armed 

feet 
Pause by her ; then came silence, then 

a voice, 
Monotonous and hollow like a Ghost's 
Denouncing judgment, but tho' chang- 
ed the King's. 

" Liest thou here so low, the child of 

one 
I honor'd, happy, dead before thy 

shame ? 
Well is it that no child is born of thee. 
The children born of thee are sword 

and fire, 
Red ruin, and the breaking up of laws, 
The craft of kindred and the Godless 

hosts 
Of heathen swarming o'er the Northern 

Sea. 
Whom I, while yet Sir Lancelot, my 

right arm, 
The mightiest of my knights, abode 

with ine, 
Have everywhere about this land of 

Christ 
In twelve great battles ruining over- 
thrown. 



3H 



GUINEVERE. 






And knowest thou now from whence I 

come — from him, 
From waging bitter war with him : 

and he, 
That did not shun to smite me in worse 

way, 
Had yet that grace of courtesy in him 

left, 
He spared to lift his hand against the 

King 
Who made him knight : but many a 

knight was slain ; 
And many more, and all his kith and 

kin 
Clave to him, and abode in his own 

land. 
And many more when Modred raised 

revolt, 
Forgetful of their troth and fealty, clave 
To Modred, and a remnant stays with 

me. 
And of this remnant will I leave a part, 
True men who love me still, for whom 

I live, 
To guard thee in the wild hour coming 

on, 
Lest but a hair of this low head be 

harm'd. 
Fear not : thou shalt be guarded till 

my death. 
Howbeit I know, if ancient prophecies 
Have err'd not, that I march to meet 

my doom. 
Thou hast not made my life so sweet 

to me, 
That I the King should greatly eare to 

live ; 
For thou hast spoilt the purpose of my 

life. 
Bear with me for the last time while I 

show, 
Ev'n for thy sake, the sin which thou 

hast sinn'd. 
For when the Roman left us, and their 

law 
Relax'd its hold upon us, and the ways 
Were filPd with rapine, here and there 

a deed 
Of prowess done redress'd a random 

wrong. 
But I was first of all the kings who 

drew 
The knighthood-errant of this realm 

and all 



The realms together under me, their 

Head, 
In that fair order of my Table Round, 
A glorious company, the flower of men, 
To serve as model for the mighty world, 
And be the fair beginning of a time. 
I made them lay their hands in mine 

and swear 
To reverence the King, as if he were 
Their conscience, and their conscience 

as their King, 
To break the heathen and uphold the 

Christ, 
To ride abroad redressing human 

jvrongs, 
To speak -no slander, no, nor listen to 

it, 
To lead sweet lives in purest chastity, 
To love one maiden only, cleave to her, 
And worship her by years of noble 

deeds, 
Until they won her ; for indeed I knew 
Of no more subtle master under heaven 
Than is the maiden passion for a maid, 
Not only to keep down the base in man, 
But teach high thought, and amiable 

words 
And courtliness, and the desire of fame, 
And love of truth, and all that makes 

a man. 
And all this throve until I wedded 

thee ! 
Believing " lo mine helpmate, one to 

feel 
My purpose and rejoicing in my joy." 
Then came thy shameful sin with 

Lancelot ; 
Then came the sin of Tristram and 

Isolt ; 
Then others, following these my might- 
iest knights, 
And drawing foul ensample from fair 

names, 
Sinn'd also, till the loathsome opposite 
Of all my heart had destined did ob- 
tain, 
And all thro' thee ! so that this life of 

mine 
I guard as God's high gift from scathe 

and wrong, 
Not greatly care to lose ; but rather 

think 
How sad it were for Arthur, should he 

live, 



GUINEVERE. 



3i5 



To sit once more within his lonely hall, 
And miss the wonted number of my 

knights, 
And miss to hear high talk of noble 

deeds 
As in the golden days before thy sin. 
For which of us, who might be left, 

could speak 
Of the pure heart, nor seem to glance 

at thee ? 
And in thy bowers of Camelot or of 

Usk 
Thy shadow still would glide from room 

to room, 
And I should evermore be vext with 

thee 
In hanging robe or vacant ornament, 
Or ghostly footfall echoing on the stair. 
For think not, tho' thou wouldst not 

love thy lord, 
Thy lord has wholly lost his love for 

thee. 
I am not made of so slight elements. 
Yet must I leave thee, woman, to thy 

shame. 
I hold that man the worst of public 

foes 
Who either for his own or children's 

sake, 
To save his blood from scandal, lets the 

wife 
Whom he knows false, abide and rule 

the house : 
For being thro' his cowardice allow'd 
Her station, taken everywhere for 

pure, 
She like a new disease, unknown to 

men, 
Creeps, no precaution used, among the 

crowd, 
Makes wicked lightnings of her eyes, 

and saps 
The fealty of our friends, and stirs the 

pulse 
With devil's leaps, and poisons half the 

young. 
Worst of the worst were that man he 

that reigns ! 
Better the King's waste hearth and 

aching heart 
Than thou reseated in thy place of 

light, 
The mockery of my people, and their 

bane." 



He paused, and in the pause she 
crept an inch 

Nearer, and laid her hands about his 
feet. 

Far off a solitary trumpet blew. 

Then waiting by the doors the war- 
horse neigh'd 

As at a friend's voice, and he spake 
again : 

" Yet think not that I come to urge 

thy crimes, 
I did not come to curse thee, Guine- 
vere, 
I, whose vast pity almost makes me die 
To see thee, laying there thy golden 

head, 
My pride in happier summers, at my 

feet. 
The wrath which forced my thoughts 

on that fierce law, 
The doom of treason and the flaming 

death, 
(When first I learnt thee hidden here) 

is past. 
The pang — which while I weigh'd thy 

heart with one 
Too wholly true to dream untruth in 

thee, 
Made my tears burn — is also past, in 

part. 
And all is past, the sin is sinn'd, and I, 
Lo ! I forgive thee, as Eternal God 
Forgives : do thou for thine own soul 

the rest. 
But how to take last leave of all I 

loved ? 

golden hair, with which I used to 

play 
Not knowing I O imperial-moulded 

form, 
And beauty such as never woman wore, 
Until it came a kingdom's curse with 

thee — 

1 cannot touch thy lips, they are not 

mine, 
But Lancelot's : nay, they never were 

the King's. 
I cannot take thy hand; that too is 

flesh, 
And in the flesh thou hast sinn'd ; and 

mine own flesh, 
Here looking down on thinqgpolluted, 



3i6 



GUINEVERE. 



1 1 loathe thee ' ; yet not less, O Guine- 
vere, 
For I was ever virgin save for thee, 
My love thro' flesh hath wrought into 

my life 
So far, that my doom is, I love thee 

still. 
Let no man dream but that I love thee 

still. 
Perchance, and so thou purify thy 

soul, 
And so thou lean on our fair father 

Christ, 
Hereafter in that world where all are 

pure 
We two may meet before high God, and 

thou 
Wilt spring to me, and claim me thine, 

and know 
I am thine husband — not a smaller 

soul, 
Nor Lancelot, nor another. Leave me 

that, 
I charge thee, my last hope. Now 

must I hence. 
Thro' the thick night I hear the trum- 
pet blow : 
They summon me their King to lead 

mine hosts 
Far down to that great battle in the 

west, 
Where I must strike against my sister's 

son, 
Leagued with the lords of the White 

Horse and knights 
Once mine, and strike him dead, and 

meet myself 
Death, or I know not what mysterious 

doom. 
And thou remaining here wilt learn the 

event ; 
But hither shall I never come again, 
Never lie by thy side, see thee no more, 
Farewell ! " 

And while she grovell'd at his feet, 
She felt the King's breath wander o'er 

her neck, 
And, in the darkness o'er her fallen 

head, 
Perceived the waving of his hands that 

blest. 

Then, l^tening till those armed steps 
were gone, 



Rose the pale Queen, and in her an- 
guish found 
The casement : " Perad venture," so 

she thought, 
" If I might see his face, and not be 

seen." 
And lo, he sat on horseback at the 

door ! 
And near him the sad nuns with each 

a light 
Stood, and he gave them charge about 

the Queen, 
To guard and foster her fore verm ore. 
And while he spake to these his helm 

was lower'd, 
To which, for crest the golden dragon 

clung 
Of Britain ; so she did not see the face, 
Which then was as an angel's, but she 

saw, 
Wet with the mists and smitten by the 

lights, 
The Dragon of the great Pendragon- 

ship 
Blaze, making all the night a steam of 

fire. 
And even then he turn'd ; and more 

and more 
The moony vapor rolling round the 

King, 
Who seem'd the phantom of a Giant in 

it, 
Enwound him fold by fold, and made 

him gray 
And grayer, till himself became as mist 
Before her, moving ghostlike to his 

doom. 

Then she stretch'd out her arms and 

cried aloud, 
" O Arthur ! " there her voice brake 

suddenly, 
Then — as a stream that spouting from 

a cliff 
Fails in mid-air, but gathering at the 

base 
Re-makes itself, and flashes down the 

vale — 
Went on in passionate utterance. 

" Gone — my lord ! 
Gone thro' my sin to slay and to be 

slain ! 
And he forgave me, and I could not 

speak. 



GUINEVERE. 



3*7 



Farewell ? I should have answer'd his 

farewell. 
His mercy choked me. Gone, my lord 

the King, 
My own true lord ! how dare I call him 

mine ? 
The shadow of another cleaves to me, 
And makes me one pollution : he, the 

King, 
CalPd me polluted : shall I kill myself? 
What help in that ? I cannot kill my 

sin, 
If soul be soul ; nor can I kill my 

shame ; 
No, nor by living can I live it down. 
The days will grow to weeks, the weeks 

to months, 
The months will add themselves and 

make the years, 
The years will roll into the centuries, 
And mine will ever be a name of scorn. 
I must not dwell on that defeat of fame. 
Let the world be ; that is but of the 

world. 
What else ? what hope ? I think there 

was a hope, 
Except he mock'd me when he spake 

of hope ; 
His hope he call'd it ; but he never 

mocks, 
For mockery is the fume of little hearts. 
And blessed be the King, who hath 

forgiven 
My wickedness to him, and left me 

hope 
That in mine own heart I can live down 

sin 
And be his friate hereafter in the heav- 
ens 
Before high God. Ah great and gentle 

lord, 
Who wast, as is the conscience of a 

saint 
Among his warring senses, to thy 

knights — 
To whom my false voluptuous pride, 

that took 
Full easily all impressions from below, 
Would not look ,up, or half-despised 

the height 
To which I would not or I could not 

climb — 
I thought I could not breathe in that 

fine air 



That pure severity of perfect light — 
I wanted warmth and color which I 

found 
In Lancelot — now I see thee what thou 

art, 
Thou art the highest and most human 

too, 
Not Lancelot, nor another. Is their 

none 
Will tell the King I love him tho' so 

late? 
Now — ere he goes to the great Battle? 

none : 
Myself must tell him in that purer 

life, 
But now it were too daring. Ah my 

God, 
What might I not have made of thy fair 

world, 
Had I but loved thy highest creature 

here? 
It was my duty to have loved the 

highest : 
It surely was my profit had I known : 
It would have been my pleasure had I 
_ seen. 

We needs must love the highest when 

we see it, 
Not Lancelot, nor another." 

Here her hand 
Grasp' d, made her veil her eyes : she 

look'd and saw 
The novice, weeping, suppliant, and 

said to. her, 
"Yea, little maid, for am /not forgiven?" 
Then glancing up beheld the holy nuns 
All round her, weeping ; and her heart 

was loosed 
Within her, and she wept with these 

and said : 

" Ye know me then, that wicked one, 
who broke 
The vast design and purpose of the 
King. 

shut me round with narrowing nun- 

nery-walls, 
Meek maidens, from the voices crying 
' Shame.' 

1 must not scorn myself : he loves me 

still. 
Let no one dream but that he loves me 

still. 
So let me, if you do not shudder at me 



3i8 



ENOCH ARDEN. 



Nor shun to call me sister, dwell with 

you ; 
Wear black and white, and be a nun 

like you ; 
Fast with your fasts, not feasting with 

your feasts ; 
Grieve with your griefs, not grieving 

at your joys, 
But not rejoicing; mingle with your 

rites ; 
Pray and be pray'd for ; lie before your 

shrines ; 
Do each low office of your holy house ; 
Walk your dim cloister, and distribute 

dole 
To poor sick people, richer in his 

eyes 
Who ransom'd us, and haler too than I ; 
And treat their loathsome hurts and 

heal mine own ; 
And so wear out in almsdeed and in 

prayer 



The sombre close of that voluptuous 

day, 
Which wrought the ruin of my lord the 

King." 

She said: they took her to them- 
selves ; and she 
Still hoping, fearing "Is it yet too 

late?" 
Dwelt with them, till in time their 

Abbess died. 
Then she, for her good deeds and her 

pure life, 
And for the power of ministration in her, 
And likewise for the high rank she had 

borne, 
Was chosen Abbess, there, an Abbess 

lived 
For three brief years, and there, an 

Abbess, past 
To where beyond these voices there is 

peace. 



ENOCH ARDEN. 



e left 



Long lines of cliff breaking havi 
a chasm ; 

And in the chasm are foam and yellow 
sands ; 

Beyond, red roofs about a narrow wharf 

In cluster ; then a moulder'd church ; 
and higher 

A long street climbs to one tall-tower'd 
mill; 

And high in heaven behind it a gray 
down 

With Danish barrows ; and a hazel- 
wood, 

By autumn nutters haunted, flourishes 

Green in a cuplike hollow of the down. 

Here on this beach a hundred years 

ago, 
Three children of three houses, Annie 

Lee, 
The prettiest little damsel in the port, 
And Philip Ray, the miller's only 

son, 



And Enoch Arden, a rough sailor's 
lad 

Made orphan by a winter shipwreck, 
play'd 

Among the waste and lumber of the 
shore, 

Hard coils of cordage, swarthy fishing- 
nets, 

Anchors of rusty fluke, and boats up- 
drawn : 

And built their castles of dissolving 
sand 

To watch them overflow'd, or following 
up 

And flying the white breaker, daily left 

The little footprint daily wash'd away. 

A narrow cave ran in beneath the 

cliff: 
In this the children play'd at keeping 

house. 
Enoch was host one day, Philip the 

next, 



ENOCH ARDEN. 



3i9 



While Annie still was mistress ; but at 
times 

Enoch would hold possession for a 
week : 

' l This is my house and this my little 
wife." 

"Mine too," said Philip, "turn and 
turn about " : 

When, if they quarrell'd, Enoch strong- 
er-made 

Was master : then would Philip, his 
blue eyes 

All flooded with the helpless wrath of 
tears, 

Shriek out, " I hate you, Enoch," and 
at this 

The little wife would weep for com- 
pany, 

And pray them not to quarrel for her 
sake, 

And say she would be little*wife to both. 

But when the dawn of rosy childhood 

past, 
And the new warmth of life's ascending 

sun 
Was felt by either, either fixt his heart 
On that one girl ; and Enoch spoke his 

love, 
But Philip loved in silence ; and the 

girl 
Seem'd kinder unto Philip than to him ; 
But she loved Enoch ; tho' she knew it 

not, 
And would if ask'd deny it. Enoch 

set 
A purpose evermore before his eyes, 
To hoard all savings to the uttermost, 
To purchase his own boat, and make a 

home 
For Annie : and so prosper'd that at 

last 
A luckier or a bolder fisherman, 
A carefuller in peril, did not breathe 
For leagues along that breaker-beaten 

coast 
Than Enoch. Likewise had he served 

a year 
On board a merchantman, and made 

himself 
Full sailor ; and he thrice had pluck'd 

a life 
From the dread sweep of the down- 
streaming seas : - 



And all men look'd upon him favor- 
ably : 

And ere he touch'd his one-and-twen- 
tieth May 

He purchased his own boat, and made 
a home 

For Annie, neat and nestlike, half-way 
up 

The narrow street that clamber'd to- 
ward the mill. 

Then, on a golden autumn eventide, 
The younger people making holiday, 
With bag and sack and basket, great 

and small, 
Went nutting to the hazels. Philip 

stay'd 
( His father lying sick and needing him) 
An hour behind ; but as he climb' d the 

hill, 
Just where the prone edge of the wood 

began 
To feather toward the hollow, saw the 

pair, 
Enoch and Annie, sitting hand-in- 
hand, 
His large gray eyes and weather-beaten 

face 
All-kindled by a still and sacred fire, 
That burn'd as on an altar. Philip 

look'd, 
And in their eyes and faces read his 

doom ; 
Then, as their faces drew together, 

groan'd, 
And slipt aside, and like a wounded 

life 
Crept down into the hollows of the 

wood ; 
There, while the rest were loud in 

merry-making, 
Had his dark hour unseen, and rose 

and past 
Bearing a lifelong hunger in his heart. 

So these were wed, and merrily rang 
the bells, 

And merrily ran the years, seven happy 
years, 

Seven happy years of health and com- 
petence, 

And mutual love and honorable toil ; 

With children ; first a daughter. In 
him woke, 



320 



ENOCH ARDEN. 



With his first babe's first cry, the noble 

wish 
To save all earnings to the uttermost, 
And give his child a better bringing-up 
Than his had been, or hers ; a wish 

renew'd, 
When two years after came a boy to be 
The rosy idol of her solitudes, 
While Enoch was abroad on wrathful 

seas, 
Or often journeying landward ; for in 

truth 
Enoch's white horse, and Enoch's 

ocean-spoil 
In ocean-smelling osier, and his face, 
Rough-redden'd with a thousand win- 
ter gales, 
Not only to the market-cross were 

known, 
But in the leafy lanes behind the down, 
Far as the portal-warding lion-whelp, 
And peacock-yewtree of the lonely 

Hall, 
Whose Friday fare was Enoch's minis- 
tering. 

Then came a change, as all things 

human change. 
Ten miles to northward of the narrow 

port 
Open'd a larger haven : thither used 
Enoch at times to go by land or sea ; 
And once- when trjfcre, and clambering 

on a mast 
In harbor, by mischance he slipt and 

fell: 
A limb was broken when they lifted 

him ; 
And while he lay recovering there, his 

wife 
Bore him another son, a sickly one : 
Another hand crept too across his trade 
Taking her bread and theirs : and on 

him fell, 
Altho' a grave and staid God-fearing 

man, 
Yet lying thus inactive, doubt and 

gloom. 
He seem'd, as in a nightmare of the 

night, 
To see his children leading evermore 
Low miserable lives of hand-to-mouth, 
And her, lie loved, a beggar: then he 
" pray'd, 



" Save them from this, whatever comes 

to me." 
And while he pray'd, the master of that 

ship 
Enoch had served in, hearing his mis- 
chance, 
Came, for he knew the man and valued ! 

him, 
Reporting of his vessel China-bound, 
And wanting yet a boatswain. Would 

he go ? 
There yet were many weeks before she 

sail'd, 
Sail'd from this port. Would Enoch 

have the place ? 
And Enoch all at once assented to it, 
Rejoicing at that answer to his prayer. 

So now that shadow of mischance 

appear'd 
No graver than as when some little 

cloud 
Cuts off the fiery highway of the sun, 
And isles a light in the offing : yet the 

wife — 
When he was gone — the children — 

what to do ? 
Then Enoch lay long-pondering on his 

plans ; 
To sell the boat — and yet he loved her 

well — 
How many a rough sea had he weath- 

er'd in her ! 
He knew her, as a horseman knows 

his horse — 
And yet to sell her — then with what 

she brought 
Buy goods and stores — set Annie forth 

in trade 
With all that seamen needed or their 

wives — 
So might she keep the house while he 

was gone. 
Should he not trade himself out yonder ? 

This voyage more than once ? yea twice 

or thrice — 
As oft as needed — last, returning rich, 
Become the master of a larger craft, 
With fuller profits lead an easier life, 
Have all his pretty young ones edu- 
cated, 
And pass his days in peace among his 
own. 



ENOCH ARDEN. 



321 



Thus Enoch in his heart determined 

Then moving homeward came on Annie 
pale, 

Nursing the sickly babe, her latest- 
born. 

■ tarted with a happy cry, 

And laid the feeble infant in Jus arms ; 

Whom Enoch took, and handled all 
his limbs, 

Appraised his weight and fondled 
fatherlike, 

But had no heart to break his pur- 

To Annie, till the morrow, when he 
spoke. 

Then first since Enoch's golden ring 

had girt 
Her finger, Annie fought against his 

will : 
Yet not with brawling opposition she, 
But manifold entreaties, many a tear, 
Many a sad kiss by day by night re- 

new'd 
(Sure that all evil would come out of it) 

iit him, supplicating, if he cared 
For her or his dear children, not to go. 
He not for his own self caring but her, 
Her and her children, let her plead in 

vain ; 
So grieving held his will, and bore it 

thro'. 

Enoch parted with his old sea- 
friend, 

Bought Annie goods and stores, and 
set his hand 

To fit their little streetward sitting- 
room 

With shelf and corner for the goods and 

So all day long till Enoch's last at 

home. 
Shaking their pretty cabin, hammer and 

axe, 
Auger and saw, while Annie seem'd to 

hear 
Her own death scaffold raising, shriil'd 

and rang, 
Till this was ended, and his c.ircful 

hand, — 
1 -narrow, — havingorder'd 

all 



Almost as neat and close as Nature 

packs 
Her blossom or her seedling, paused ; 

and he, 
Who needs would work for Annie to 

the last, 
Ascending tired, heavily slept till morn. 

And Enoch faced this morning of 

farewell 
Brightly and boldly. All his Annie's 

fears, 
Save, as his Annie's, were a laughter to 

him. 
Yet Enoch as a brave God-fearing 

man 
Bow'd himself down, and in that mys- 
tery 
Where God-in-man is one with man-in- 

God, 
Pray'd for a blessing on his wife and 

babes 
Whatever came to him : and then he 

said, 
" Annie, this voyage by the grace of 

God 
Will bring fair weather yet to all of us. 
Keep a clean hearth and a clear fire for 

me, 
For I '11 be back, my girl, before you 

know it." 
Then lightly rocking baby's cradle, 

" and he, 
This pretty, puny, weakly little one, — 
Nay — for I love him ail the better for 

it- 
God bless him, he shall sit upon my 

knees 
And I will tell him tales of foreign parts, 
And make him merry, when 1 come 

home again. 
Come Annie, come, cheer up before I 
go." 

Him running on thus hopefully she 

heard, 
And almost hoped herself; but when 

he turn'd 
The current of hi* ta'k to graver things 
In sailor fashion roil 
On providence and ,trust in J I 

she he. nd, 
Heard and not heard him ; as the 

village girl, 



322 



ENOCH ARDEN. 



Who sets her pitcher underneath the 
spring, 

Musing on him that used to fill it for 
her, 

Hears and not hears, and lets it over- 
flow. 

At length she spoke, " O Enoch, you 

are wise ; 
And yet for all your wisdom well know I 
That I shall look upon your iace no 

more." 

" Well then," said Enoch, " I shall 
look on yours. 
Annie, the ship I sail in passes here 
(He named the day) ; get you a sea- 
man's glass, 
Spy out my iace, and laugh at all your 
fears." 

But when the last of those last mo- 
ments came, 
"Annie, my girl, cheer up, be com- 
forted, 
Look to the babes, and till I come again, 
Keep everything shipshape, for I must 

g°- 
And fear no more for me ; or if you fear 
Cast all your cares on God ; that anchor 

holds. 
Is He not yonder in those uttermost 
Parts of the morning? if I flee to these 
Can I go from Him? and the sea is 

His, 
The sea is His : He made it." 

Enoch rose, 
Cast his strong arms about his drooping 

wife, 
And kiss'd his wonder-stricken little 

ones ; 
But for the third, the sickly one, who 

slept 
After a mght of feverous wakefulness, 
When Annie would have raised him 

Enoch said, 
"Wake him not; let him sleep; how 

should the child 
Remember this?" and kiss'd him in 

his cot, 
But Annie from her baby's forehead 

dipt 
A tiny curl, and gave it : this he kept 



Thro' all his future ; but now hastily 

caught 
His bundle, waved his hand, and went 

his way. 

She when the day, that Enoch men- 
tion'd, came, 

Borrow'd a glass, but all in vain : per- 
haps 

She could not fix the glass to suit her 
eye ; 

Perhaps her eye was dim, hand tremu- 
lous ; 

She saw him not : and while he stood 
on deck 

Waving, the moment and the vessel 
past. 

Ev'n to the last dip of the vanishing 

sail 
She watch 'd it, and departed weeping 

for him ; 
Then, tho' she mourn'd his absence as 

his grave, 
Set her sad will no less to chime with 

his, 
But throve not in her trade, not being 

bred 
To barter, nor compensating the want 
By shrewdness, neither capable of lies, 
Nor asking overmuch and taking less, 
And still foreboding "What would 

Enoch say?" 
For more than once, in days of difficulty 
And pressure, had she sold her wares 

for less 
Than what she gave in buying what 

she sold : 
She fail'd and sadden'd knowing it ; 

and thus, 
Expectant of that news which never 

came, 
Gain'd for her own a scanty sustenance, 
And lived a life of silent melancholy. 

Now the third child was sickly-born 
and grew 

Yet sicklier, tho' the mother cared for it 

With all a mother's care : neverthe- 
less, 

Whether her business often call'd her 
from it, 

Or thro' the want of what it needed 
most, 



ENOCH ARDEN. 



323 



Or means to pay the voice who best 

could tell 
What most it needed — howsoe'er it 

was, 
After a lingering, — ere she was aware, — 
Like the caged bird escaping suddenly, 
The little innocent soul flitted away. 

In that same week when Annie buried 

it, 
Philip's true heart, which hunger'd for 

her peace 
(Since Enoch left he had not look'd 

upon her), 
Smote him, as having kept aloof so 

long. 
" Surely," said Philip, " I may see her 

now, 
Maybe some little comfort " ; therefore 

went, 
Past thro' the solitary room in front, 
Paused for a moment at an inner door, 
Then struck it thrice, and, no one 

opening, 
Enter'd ; but Annie, seated with her 

grief, 
Fresh from the burial of her little one, 
Cared not to look on any human face, 
But turn'd her own toward the wall and 

wept. 
Then Philip standing up said falter- 

" Annie, I came to ask a favor of you." 

He spoke ; the passion in her moan'd 

reply, 
" Favor from one so sad and so forlorn 
As I am ! " half abash' d him ; yet un- 

ask'd, 
His bashfulness and tenderness at war, 
He set himself beside her, saying to 

her: 

" I came to speak to you of what he 

wish'd, 
Enoch, your husband : I have ever said 
You chose the best among us — a strong 

man : 
For where he fixt his heart he set his 

hand 
To do the thing he will'd, and bore it 

thro'. 
And wherefore did he go this weary 

way, 



And leave you lonely? not to see the 
world — 

For pleasure ? — nay, but for the where- 
withal 

To give his babes a better bringing-up 

Than his had been, or yours : that was 
his wish. 

And if he come again, vext will he be 

To find the precious morning hours 
were lost. 

And it would vex him even in his grave, 

If he could know his babes were run- 
ning wild 

Like colts about the waste. So, Annie, 
now — 

Have we not known each other all our 
lives? 

I do beseech you by the love you bear 

Him and his children not to say me 
nay — 

For, if you will, when Enoch comes 
again 

Why then he shall repay me — if you 
will, 

Annie — for I am rich and well-to-do. 

Now let me put the boy and girl to 
school : 

This is the favor that I came to ask." 

Then Annie with her brows against 
the wall 

Answer'd, " I cannot look you in the 
face ; 

I seem so foolish and so broken down. 

When you came in my sorrow broke 
me down ; 

And now I think your kindness breaks 
me down ; 

But Enoch lives ; that is borne in on 
me ; 

He will repay you : money can be re- 
paid ; 

Not kindness such as yours." 

And Philip ask'd 
" Then you will let me, Annie ? " 

There she turn'd, 
She rose, and fixt her swimming eyes 

upon him, 
And dwelt a moment on his kindly face, 
Then calling down a blessing on his 

head 
Caught at his hand and wrung it pas- 
sionately, 



324 



ENOCH ARDEN. 



And past into the little garth beyond. 
So lifted up in spirit he moved away. 

Then Philip put the boy and girl to 

school, 
And bought them needful books, and 

every way, 
Like one who does his duty by his own, 
Made himself theirs ; and tho' for 

Annie's sake, 
Fearing the lazy gossip of the port, 
He oft denied his heart his dearest wish, 
And seldom crost her threshold, yet he 

sent 
Gifts by the children, garden-herbs and 

fruit, 
The late and early roses from his 

wall. 
Or conies from the down, and now and 

then, 
With some pretext of fineness in the 

meal 
To save the offence of charitable, flour 
From his tall mill that whistled on the 
waste. 

But Philip did not fathom Annie's 
mind : 

Scarce could the woman when he came 
upon her, 

Out of full heart and boundless grati- 
tude 

Light on a broken word to thank him 
with. 

Bui Philip was her children's all-in- 
all ; 

From distant corners of the street they 
ran 

To greet his hearty welcome heartily ; 

Lords of his house and of his mill were 
they ; 

Worried his passive ear with petty 
wrongs 

Or pleasures, hung upon him, play'd 
with him 

And call'd him Father Philip. Philip 
gain'd 

As Enoch lost ; for Enoch seem'd to 
them 

Uncertain as a vision or a dream, 

Faint as a figure seen in early dawn 

Down at the far end of an avenue, 

Going we know not where : and so ten 
years, 



Since Enoch left his hearth and native 

land, 
Fled forward, and no news of Enoch 

came. 

It chanced one evening Annie's 

children long'd 
To go with others, nutting 10 the wood, 
And Annie would go with them ; then 

they begg'd 
For Father Philip (as they call'd him) 

too : 
Him, like the working bee in blossom- 
dust, 
Blanch'd with his mill, they found ; 

and saying to him, 
" Come with us Father Philip," he 

denied ; 
But when the children pluck'd at him 

to go, 
He laugh 'd, and yielded readily to their 

wish, 
For was not Annie with them? and 

they went. 

But after scaling half the weary down, 

Just where the prone edge of the wood 
began 

To feather toward the hollow, all her 
force 

Fail'd her ; and sighing " Let me rest" 
she said : 

So Philip rested with her well-content ; 

While all the younger ones with jubi- 
lant cries 

Broke from their elders, and tumul- 
tously 

Down thro' the whitening hazels made 
a plunge 

To the bottom, and dispersed, and bent 
or broke 

The lithe reluctant boughs to tear away 

Their tawny clusters, crying to each 

other 
And calling, here and there, about the 
wood. 

But Philip sitting at her side forgot 
Her presence, and remember'd one 

dark hour 
Here in this wood, when like a wounded 

life 
He crept into the shadow : at last he 

said 



ENOCH ARDEN. 



325 



Lifting his honest forehead, " Listen, 

Annie, 
How merry they are down yonder in 

the wood." 
" Tired, Annie ? " for she did not speak 

a word. 
" Tired ? " but her face had fall'n upon 

her hands ; 
At which, as with a kind of anger in 

him, 
" The ship was lost," he said, " the ship 

was lost ! 
No more of that ! why should you kill 

yourself 
And make them orphans quite ? " And 

Annie said, 
" I thought not of it : but — I know not 

why — 
Their voices make me feel so solitary." 

Then Philip coming somewhat closer 

spoke. 
" Annie, there is a thing upon my mind, 
And it has been upon my mind so long, 
That tho' I know not when it first came 

there, 
I know that it will out at last. O 

Annie, 
It is beyond all hope, against all chance, 
That he who left you ten long years ago 
Should still be living; well then — let 

me speak : 
I grieve to see you poor and wanting 

help : 
I cannot help you as I wish to do 
Unless — they say that women are so 

quick — 
Perhaps you know what I would have 

you know — 
I wish you for my wife. I fain would 

prove 
A father to your children : I do think 
They love me as a father : I am sure 
That I love them as if they were mine 

own ; 
And I believe, if you were fast my wife, 
That after all these sad uncertain years, 
We might be still as happy as God 

grants 
To any of His creatures. Think upon 

it : 
For I am well-to-do — no kin, no care, 
No burthen, save my care for you and 

yours : 



And we have known each other all our 

lives, 
And I have loved you longer than you 

know." 

Then answer'd Annie ; tenderly she 

spoke : 
"You have been as God's good angel 

in our house. 
God bless you for it, God reward you 

fork, 
Philip, with something happier than 

myself. 
Can one love twice ? can you be ever 

loved 
As Enoch was? what is it that you 

ask? " 
" I am content," he answer'd, " to be 

loved 
A little after Enoch." u O," she cried 
Scared as it were, " dear Philip, wait a 

while : 
If Enoch comes — but Enoch will not 

come — 
Yet wait a year, a year is not so long : 
Surely I shall be wiser in a year : 

wait a little ! " Philip sadly said, 
" Annie, as I have waited all my life 

1 well may wait a little." " Nay," she 

cried, 
" I am bound : you have my promise — 

in a year : 
Will you not bide your year as I bide 

mine ? " 
And Philip answer'd, " I will bide my 

year." 

Here both were mute, till Philip 

glancing up 
Beheld the dead flame of the fallen 

day 
Pass from the Danish barrow overhead ; 
Then fearing night and chill for Annie 

rose, 
And sent his voice beneath him thro' 

the wood. 
Up came the children laden with their 

spoil ; 
Then all descended to the port, and 

there 
At Annie's door he paused and gave 

his hand, 
Saying gently, " Annie, when I spoke 

to ycu, 



326 



ENOCH ARDEN. 



That was your hour of weakness. I 

was wrong. 
I am always bound to you, but you are 

free." 
Then Annie weeping answer' d, "I am 

bound." 

She spoke ; and in one moment as it 

were, 
While yet she went about her house- 
hold ways, 
Ev'n as she dwelt upon his latest words, 
That he had loved her longer than she 

knew, 
That autumn into autumn flash'd again, 
And there he stood once more before 

her face, 
Claiming her promise. " Is it a year ? " 

she ask'd. 
"Yes, if the nuts," he said, "be ripe 

again : 
Come out and see." But she — she 

put him off — 
So much to look to — such a change — 

a month — 
Give her a month — she knew that she 

was bound — 
A month — no more. Then Philip with 

his eyes 
Full of that lifelong hunger, and his 

voice 
Shaking a little like a drunkard's hand, 
" Take your own time, Annie, take 

your own time." 
And Annie could have wept for pity of 

him ; 
And yet she held him on delayingly 
With many a scarce-believable excuse. 
Trying his truth and his long sufferance, 
Till half-another year had slipt away. 

By this the lazy gossips of the port, 
Abhorrent of a calculation crost, 
Began to chafe as at a personal wrong. 
Some thought that Philip did but trifle 

with her ; 
Some that she but held off to draw him 

on ; 
And others laugh'd at her and Philip 

too, 
As simple folk that knew not their own 

minds : 
And one, in whom all evil fancies clung 
Like serpent eggs together, laughingly 



Would hint at worse in either. Her 

own son 
'Was silent, tho' he often look'd his 

wish ; 
But evermore the daughter prest upon 

her 
To wed the man so dear to all of them 
And lift the household out of poverty ; 
And Philip's rosy face contracting grew 
Careworn and wan ; and all these things 

fell on her 
Sharp as reproach. 

At last one night it chanced 
That Annie could not sleep, but ear- 
nestly 
Pray'd for a sign "my Enoch is he 

gone ? " 
Then compass'd round by the blind 

wall of night 
Brook'd not the expectant terror of her 

heart, 
Started from bed, and struck herself a 

light, 
Then desperately seized the holy Book, 
Suddenly set it wide to find a sign, 
Suddenly put her finger on the text, 
" Under a palmtree." That was noth- 
ing to her : 
No meaning there : she closed the book 

and slept : 
When lo ! her Enoch sitting on a height, 
Under a palmtree, over him the Sun : 
" He is gone," she thought, " he is 

happy, he is singing 
Hosanna in the highest : yonder shines 
The Sun of Righteousness, and these 

be palms 
Whereof the happy people strowing 

cried 
' Hosanna in the highest ! ' " Here 

she woke, 
Resolved, sent for him and said wildly 

to him, 
" There is no reason why we should not 

wed." 
" Then for God's sake," he answer'd, 

"both our sakes, 
So you will wed me, let it be at once." 

So these were wed and merrily rang 
m the bells, 
Merrily rang the bells and they were 
wed. 



ENOCH ARDEN. 



327 



But never merrily beat Annie's heart. 
A footstep seem'd to fall beside her path, 
She knew not whence ; a whisper on 

her ear, 
She knew not what ; nor loved she to 

be left 
Alone at home, nor ventured out alone. 
What ail'd her then, that ere she en- 

ter'd, often 
Her hand dwelt lingeringly on the latch, 
Fearing to enter : Philip thought he 

knew : 
Such doubts and fears were common 

to her state, 
Being with chiM : but when her child 

was born, 
Then her new child was as herself re- 

new'd, 
Then the new mother came about her 

heart, 
Then her good Philip was her all-in-all, 
And that mysterious instinct wholly 

died. 

And where was Enoch? prosperously 

sail'd 
The ship "Good Fortune," tho' at 

setting forth 
The Biscay, roughly ridging eastward, 

shook 
And almost overwhelmed her, yet un- 

vext 
She slipt across the summer of the 

world, 
Then after a long tumble about the 

Cape 
And frequent interchange of foul and 

fair, 
She passing thro' the summer world 

again, 
The breath of heaven came continually 
And sent her sweetly by the golden 

isles, 
Till silent in her oriental haven. 

There Enoch traded for himself, and 

bought 
Quaint monsters for the market of 

those times, 
A gilded dragon, also, for the babes. 

Less lucky her home-voyage : at first 
indeed 
Thio' many a fair sea-circle, day by day, 



Scarce-rocking, her full-busted figure- 
head 

Stared o'er the ripple feathering from 
her bows : 

Then follow'd calms, and then winds 
variable, 

Then baffling, a long course of them ; 
and last 

Storm, such as drove her under moon- 
less heavens 

Till hard upon the cry of " breakers " 
came 

The crash of ruin, and the loss of all 

But Enoch and two others. Half the 
night, 

Buoy'd upon floating tackle and broken 
spars, 

These drifted, stranding on an isle at 
morn 

Rich, but the loneliest in a lonely sea. 

No want was there of human suste- 
nance, 

Soft fruitage, mighty nuts, and nourish- 
ing roots ; 

Nor save for pity was it hard to take 

The helpless life so wild that it was 
tame. 

There in a seaward-gazing mountain- 
gorge 

They built, and thatch'd with leaves of 
palm, a hut, 

Half hut, half native cavern. So the 
three, 

Set in this Eden of all plenteousness, 

Dwelt with eternal summer, ill-content. 

For one, the youngest, hardly more 
than boy, 

Hurt in that night of sudden ruin and 
wreck, 

Lay lingering out a three-years' death- 
in-life. 

They could not leave him. After he 
was gone, 

The two remaining found a fallen stem ; 

And Enoch's comrade, careless of him- 
self, 

Fire-hollowing this in Indian fashion, 
fell 

Sun-stricken, and that other lived 
al (me. 

In those two deaths he read God's 
warning " wait." 



328 



ENOCH ARDEN. 



The mountain wooded to the peak, 
the lawns 

And winding glades high up like ways 
to Heaven, 

The slender coco's drooping crown of 
plumes, 

The lightning flash of insect and of bird, 

The lustre of the long convolvuluses 

That coil'd around the stately stems, 
and ran 

Ev'n to the limit of the land, the glows 

And glories of the broad belt of the 
world, 

All these he saw ; but what he fain had 
seen 

He could not see, the kindly human 
face, 

Nor ever hear a kindly voice, but heard 

The myriad shriek of wheeling ocean- 
fowl, 

The league-long roller thundering on 
the reef, 

The moving whisper of huge trees that 
branch'd 

And blossom'd in the zenith, or the 
sweep 

Of some precipitous rivulet to the 
wave, 

As down the shore he ranged, or all 
day long 

Sat often in the seaward-gazing gorge, 

A shipwreck'd sailor, waiting for a sail : 

No sail from day to day, but every day 

The sunrise broken into scarlet shafts 

Among the palms and ferns and preci- 
pices ; 

The blaze upon the waters to the east ; 

The blaze upon his island overhead ; 

The blaze upon the waters to the west ; 

Then the great stars that globed them- 
selves in Heaven, 

The hollower-bellowing ocean, and 
again 

The scarlet shafts of sunrise — but no 
sail. 

There often as he watch'd or seem'd 
to watch, 

So still, the golden lizard on him 
paused, 

A phantom made of many phantoms 
moved 

Before him haunting him, or he him- 
self 



Moved haunting people, things and 

places, known 
Far in a darker isle beyond the line ; 
The babes, their babble, Annie, the 

small house, 
The climbing street, the mill, the leafy 

lanes, 
The peacock-yewtree and the lonely 

Hall, 
The horse he drove, the boat he sold, 

the chill 
November dawns and dewy-glooming 

downs, 
The gentle shower, the smell of dying 

leaves, 
And the low moan of leaden-color'd 

seas. 

Once likewise, in the ringing of his 

ears, 
Tho' faintly, merrily — far and far 

away — 
He heard the pealing of his parish bells ; 
Then, tho' he knew not wherefore, 

started up 
Shuddering, and when the beauteous 

hateful isle 
Return 'd upon him, had not his poor 

heart 
Spoken with That, which being every- 
where 
Lets none, who speaks with Him, seem 

all alone, 
Surely the man had died of solitude. 

Thus over Enoch's early-silvering 

head 
The sunny and rainy seasons came and 

went 
Year after year. His hopes to see his 

own, 
And pace the sacred old familiar fields, 
Not yet had perish'd, when his lonely 

doom 
Came suddenly to an end. Another 

ship 
(She wanted water) blown by baffling 

winds, 
Like the Good Fortune, from her des- 
tined course, 
Stay'd by this isle, not knowing where 

she lay : 
For since the mate had seen at early 

dawn 



ENOCH ARDENT 



329 



Across a break on the mist-wreathen 
isle 

The silent water slipping from the hills, 

They sent a crew that landing burst 
away 

[n search of stream or fount, and fill'd 
the shores 

With clamor. Downward from his 
mountain gorge 

Stept the long-hair'd long-bearded sol- 
itary, 

Brown, looking hardly human, strangely 
clad, 

Muttering and mumbling, idiotlike it 
seem'd, 

With inarticulate rage, and making 
signs 

They knew not what : and yet he led 
the way 

To where the rivulets of sweet water 
ran ; 

And ever as he mingled with the crew, 

And heard them talking, his long- 
bounden tongue 

Was loosen 'd, till he made them under- 
stand ; 

Whom, when their casks were fill'd 
they took aboard : 

And there the tale he utter'd brokenly, 

Scarce credited at first but more and 
more, 

Amazed and melted all who listen'd to it: 

And clothes they gave him and free pas- 
sage home ; 

But oft he work'd among the rest and 
shook 

His isolation from him. None of these 

Came from his county, or could answer 
him, 

If question'd, aught of what he cared to 
know. 

And dull the voyage was with long 
delays, 

The vessel scarce sea-worthy ; but ev- 
ermore 

His fancy fled before the lazy wind 

Returning, till beneath a clouded moon 

He like a lover down thro' all his blood 

Drew in the dewy meadowy morning- 
breath 

Of England, blown across her ghostly 
wall : 

And that same morning officers and men 

Levied a kindly tax upon themselves, 



Pitying the lonely man, and gave him it : 
Then moving up the coast they landed 

him, 
Ev'n in that harbor whence he sail'd 

before. 

There Enoch spoke no word to any 

one, 
But homeward, — home, — what home ? 

had he a home ? 
His home, he walk'd. Bright was that 

afternoon, 
Sunny but chill ; till drawn thro' either 

chasm, 
Where either haven open'd on the 

deeps, 
Roll'd a sea-haze and whelm'd the world 

in gray ; 
Cut off the length of highway on before, 
And left but narrow breadth to left and 

right 
Of wither'd holt or tilth or pasturage.* 
On the nigh-naked tree the Robin piped 
Disconsolate, and thro' the dripping 

haze 
The dead weight of the dead leaf bore 

it down : 
Thicker the drizzle grew, deeper the 

gloom ; 
Last, as it seem'd, a great mist-blotted 

light 
Flared on him, and he came upon the 

place. 

Then down the long street having 

slowly stolen, 
His heart foreshadowing all calamity, 
His eyes upon the stones, he reach'd the 

home 
Where Annie lived and loved him, and 

his babes 
In those far-off seven happy years were 

born ; 
But finding neither light nor murmur 

there 
(A bill of sale gleam' d thro' the drizzle) 

crept 
Still downward thinking " dead or dead 

to me ! " 

Down to the pool and narrow wharf 
he went, 
Seeking a tavern which of old he knew. 
A front of timber-crost antiquity, 



33° 



ENOCH ARDEN. 



So propt, worm-eaten, ruinously old, 
He thought it must have gone ; but he 

was gone 
Who kept it ; and his widow, Miriam 

Lane, 
With daily-dwindling profits held the 

house ; 
A haunt of brawling seamen once, but 

now 
Stiller with yet a bed for wandering men. 
There Enoch rested silent many days. 

But Miriam Lane was good and gar- 
rulous, 
Nor let him be, but often breaking in, 
Told him, with other annals of the port, 
Not knowing — Enoch was so brown, 

so bow'd, 
So broken — all the story of his house. 
His baby's death, her growing poverty, 
How Philip put her little ones to school, 
And kept them in it, his long wooing 

her, 
Her slow consent, and marriage, and the 

birth 
Of Philip's child : and o'er his counte- 
nance 
No shadow past, nor motion : any one, 
Regarding, well had deem'd he felt the 

tale 
Less than the teller : only when she 

closed, 
" Enoch, poor man, was cast away and 

lost," 
He shaking his gray head pathetically, 
Repeated muttering " Cast away and 

lost " ; 
Again in deeper inward whispers 
" Lost ! " 

But Enoch yearn'd to see her face 

again ; 
'* If I might look on her sweet face again 
And know that she is happy." So the 

thought 
Haunted and harass' d him, and drove 

him forth, 
At evening when the dull November day 
Was growing duller twilight, to the hill. 
There he sat down gazing on all below ; 
There did a thousand memories roll 

upon him, 
Unspeakable for sadness. By and by 
The ruddy square of comfortable light, 



Far-blazing from the rear of Philip's 

house, 

Allured him, as the beacon-blaze allures 
The bird of passage, till he madly stri ;es 
Against it, and beats out his weary life. 

For Philip's dwelling fronted on the 

street, 
The latest house to landward ; but be- 
hind, 
With one small gate that open'd on the 

waste, 
Flourish'd a little garden square and 

_ wall'd : 
And in it throve an ancient evergreen, 
A yewtree, and all round it ran a walk 
Of shingle, and a walk divided it : 
But Enoch shunn'd the middle walk 

and stole 
Up by the wall, behind the yew ; and 

thence 
That which he better might have 

shunn'd, if griefs 
Like his have worse or better, Enoch 

saw. 

For cups and silver on the burnish'd 

board 
Sparkled and shone ; so genial was the 

hearth : 
And on the right hand of the hearth he 

saw 
Philip, the slighted suitor of old times, 
Stout, rosy, with his babe across his 

knees ; 
And o'er her second father stoopt a girl, 
A later but a loftier Annie Lee, 
Fair-hair'd and tall, and from her lifted 

hand 
Dangled a length of ribbon and a ring 
To tempt the babe, who rear'd his creasy 

arms, 
Caught at and ever miss'd it, and they 

laugh'd : 
And on the left hand of the hearth he 

saw 
The mother glancing often toward her 

babe, 
But turning now and then to speak with 

him, 
Her son, who stood beside her tall and 

strong, 
And saying that which pleaded him, for 

he smiled. 



ENOCH ARDEN. 



33i 



e Now when the dead man come to life 

beheld 
rlis wife his wife no more, and saw the 

babe 
lers, yet not his, upon the father's 

knee, 
A.nd all the warmth, the peace, the hap- 
piness, 

-Vnd his own children tall and beautiful-, 
bid him, that other, reigning in his 

place, 
„ord of his rights and of his children's 
I love, — 

Then he, tho' Miriam Lane had told him 

all, 
because things seen are mightier than 

things heard, 
atagger'd and shook, holding the 

branch, and fear'd 
To send abroad a shrill and terrible cry, 
Vhich in one moment, like the blast of 
t doom, 

Vould shatter all the happiness of the 
i hearth. 

He therefore turning softly like a 

I thief, 

^est the harsh shingle should grate un- 
derfoot, 

!Lnd fee ing all along the garden-wall, 

^est he should swoon and tumble and 
be found, 

; >ept to the gate, and open'd it, and 
closed, 

^.s lightly as a sick man's chamber-door, 

( 3ehind him, and came out upon the 
waste. 

I 
And there he would have knelt, but 
that his knees 

'.Vere feeble, so that falling prone he dug 

iis fingers into the wet earth, and 

\ pray'd. 

; " Too hard to bear ! why did they 

take me thence? 
OGod Almighty, blessed Saviour, Thou 
That didst uphold me on my lonely isle, 
jjphold me, Father, in my lone'iness 
\ little longer ! aid me, give me strength 
|Not to tell her, never to let her know. 
rlelp me not to break in upon her peace. 
My children too ! must L not speak to 

these ? 



They know me not. I should betray 

myself. 
Never : no father's kiss for me, — the 

girl 
So like her mother, and the boy, my 

son." 

There speech and thought and na- 
ture fail'd a little, 
And he lay tranced ; but when he rose 

and paced 
Back toward his solitary home again, 
All down the long and narrow street he 

went 
Beating it in upon his weary brain, 
As tho' it were the burthen of a song, 
" Not to tell her, never to let her know." 

He was not all unhappy. His resolve 
Upbore him, and firm faith, and ever- 
more 
Prayer from a living source within the 

will, 
And beating up thro' all the bitter 

world, 
Like fountains of sweet water in the sea, 
Kept him a living soul. " This miller's 

wife," 
He said to Miriam, " that you told me 

of, 
Has she no fear that her first husband 

lives ? " 
" Ay ay, poor soul," said Miriam, " fear 

enow ! 
If you could tell her you had seen him 

dead, 
Why, that would be her comfort " ; and 

he thought, 
" After the Lord has call'd me she shall 

know, • 
I wait His time," and Enoch set him- 
self, 
Scorning an alms, to work whereby to 

live. 
Almost to all things could he turn his 

hand. 
Cooper he was and carpenter, and 

wrought 
To make the boatmen fishing-nets, or 

help'd 
At lading and unlading the tall barks, 
That brought the stinted commerce of 

those days ; 
Thus carn'd a scanty living for himself: 



332 



ENOCH ARDEN. 



Yet since he did but labor for himself, 

Work without hope, there was not life 
in it 

Whereby the man could live ; and as 
the year 

Roll'd itself round again to meet the 
day 

When Enoch had return 'd, a languor 
came 

Upon him, gentle sickness, gradually 

Weakening the man, till he could do 
no more, 

But kept the house, his chair, and last 
his bed. 

And Enoch bore his weakness cheer- 
fully. 

For sure no gladlier does the stranded 
wreck 

See thro' the gray skirts of a lifting 
squall 

The boat that bears the hope of life ap- 
proach 

To save the life despair'd of, than he 
saw 

Death dawning on him, and the close 
of all. 

For thro' that dawning gleam'd a 

kindlier hope 
On Enoch thinking, "After I am gone, 
Then may she learn I loved her to the 

last." 
He call'd aloud for Miriam Lane and 

said, 
" Woman, I have a secret — only swear, 
Before I tell you — swear upon the 

book 
Not to reveal it, till you see me dead." 
"Dead," clamor'd the good woman, 

" hear him talk ! 
I warrant, man, that we shall bring you 

round." 
"Swear," added Enoch sternly, "on 

the book." 
And on the book, half- frighted, Miriam 

swore. 
Then Enoch rolling his gray eyes upon 

her, 
" Did you know Enoch Arden of this 

town ? " 
" Know him ? " she said, " I knew him 

tar away. 
Ay, ay, I mind him coming down the 

street ; 



Held his head high, and cared for no 

man, he." 
Slowly and sadly Enoch answer'd her ; 
" His head is low, and no man cares 

for him. 
I think I have not three days more to 

live ; 
I am the man." At which the woman 

gave 
A half-incredulous, half-hysterical cry. 
" You Arden, you ! nay, ■ — sure he was 

a foot 
Higher than you be." Enoch said 

again, 
" My God has bow'd me down to what 

I am ; 
My grief and solitude have broken me ; 
Nevertheless, know you that I am he 
Who married — but that name has 

twice been changed — 
I married her who married Philip Ray. 
Sit, listen." Then he told her of his 

voyage, 
His wreck, his lonely life, his coming 

back, 
His gazing in on Annie, his resolve, 
And how he kept it. As the woman 

heard, 
Fast flow'd the current of her easy 

tears, 
While in her heart she yearn'd inces- 
santly 
To rush abroad all round the little 

haven, 
Proclaiming Enoch Arden and his 

woes ; 
But awed and promise-bounden she 

forbore, 
Saying only, " See your bairns before 

you go ! 
Eh, let me fetch 'em, Arden," and 

arose 
Eager to bring them down, for Enoch 

hung 
A moment on her words, but then re- 
plied : 

" Woman, disturb me not now at the 
last, 

But let me hold my purpose till I die. 

Sit down again ; mark me and under- 
stand, 

While I have power to speak. I charge 
you now, 



ENOCH ARDEN. 



333 



When you shall see her, tell her that I 

died 
Blessing her, praying for her, loving 

her; 
Save for the bar between us, loving 

her 
As when she laid her head beside my 

own. 
And tell my daughter Annie, whom I 

saw 
So like her mother, that my latest 

breath 
Was spent in blessing her and praying 

for her. 
And tell my son that I died blessing 

him. 
And say to Philip that I blest him too ; 
He never meant us anything but good. 
But if my children care to see me dead, 
Who hardly knew me living, let them 

come, 
I am their father ; but she must not 

come, 
For my dead face would vex her after- 
life. 
And now there is but one of all my 

blood, 
Who will embrace me in the world- 
to-be : 
This hair is his : she cut it off and 

gave it, 
And I have borne it with me all these 

years, 
And thought to bear it with me to my 

grave ; 



But now my mind is changed, for I 

shall see him, 
My babe in bliss : wherefore when I 

am gone, 
Take, give her this, for it may comfort 

her : 
It will moreover be a token to her, 
That I am he." 

He ceased ; and Miriam Lane 
Made such a voluble answer promising 

all, 
That once again he roll'd his eyes upon 

her 
Repeating all he wish'd, and once again 
She promised. 

Then the third night after this, 

While Enoch slumber'd motionless and 
pale, 

And Miriam watch'd and dozed at in- 
tervals, 

There came so loud a calling of the sea, 

That all the houses in the haven rang. 

He woke, he rose, he spread his arms 
abroad 

Crying with a loud voice "A sail! a 
sail ! 

I am saved " ; and so fell back and 
spoke no more. 

So past the strong heroic soul away. 
And when they buried him the little 

port 
Had seldom seen a costlier funeral. 



334 



A YLMER'S FIELD. 



ADDITIONAL POEMS. 



AYLMER'S FIELD. 

1793. 
Dust are our frames ; and, gilded 
dust, our pride 

Looks only for a moment whole and 
sound ; 

Like that long-buried body of the king, 

Found lying with his urns and orna- 
ments, 

Which at a touch of light, an air of 
heaven, 

Slipt into ashes and was found no more. 

Here is a story which in rougher 

shape 
Came from a grizzled cripple, whom I 

saw 
Sunning himself in a waste field alone — 
Old, and a mine of memories — who 

had served, 
Long since, a bygone Rector of the 

place, 
And been himself a part of what he 

told. 

Sir Aylmer Aylmer that almighty 

man, 
The county God — in whose capacious 

hall, 
Hung with a hundred shields, the fam- 
ily tree 
Sprang from the midriff of a prostrate 

king — 
Whose blazing wyvern weathercock'd 

the spire, 
Stood from his walls and wing'd his 

entry-gates 
And swang besides on many a windy 

sign — 
Whose eyes from under a pyramidal 

head 
Saw from his windows nothing save his 

own — 
What- lovelier of his own had he than 

her, 



His only child, his Edith, whom he 

loved 
As heiress and not heir regretfully ? 
But " he that marries her marries her 

name " 
This fiat somewhat soothed himself 

and wife, 
His wife a faded beauty of the Baths, 
Insipid as the Queen upon a card ; 
Her all of thought and bearing hardly 

more 
Than his own shadow in a sickly sun. 

A land of hops and poppy-mingled 

corn, 
Little about it stirring save a brook \ 
A s.eepy land where under the same 

wheel 
The same old rut would deepen year by 

year ; 
Where almost all the village had one 

name ; 
Where Aylmer follow'd Aylmer at the 

Hall 
And Averill Averill at the Rectory 
Thrice over ; so that Rectory and Hall, 
Bound in an immemorial intimacy, 
Were open to each other ; tho' to dream 
That Love could bind them closer well 

had made 
The hoar hair of the Baronet bristle 

up 
With horror, worse than had he heard 

his priest 
Preach an inverted scripture, sons of 

men 
Daughters of God ; so sleepy was the 

land. 

And might not Averill, had lie will'd j 

it so, 
Somewhere beneath his own low range 

of roofs, 
Have also set his many-shielded tree? 
There was an Ayhner-Averill marriage 

once, 



AYLMER'S FIELD. 



335 



When the red rose was redder than 
itself, 

And York's white rose as red as Lan- 
caster's, 

With wounded peace which each had 
prick'd to death. 

" Not proven," Averill said, or laugh- 
ingly* 

" Some other race of Averills" — prov'n 
or no, 

What cared he ? what, if other or the 
same ? 

He lean'd not on his fathers but him- 
self. 

But Leolin, his brother, living oft 

With Averill, and a year or two before 

Call'd to the bar, but ever call'd away 

By one low voice to one dear neigh- 
borhood, 

Would often, in his walks with Edith, 
claim 

A distant kinship to the gracious blood 

That shook the heart of Edith hearing 
him. 

Sanguine he was : a but less vivid hue 
Than of that islet in the chestnut-bloom 
Flamed in his cheek ; and eager eyes, 

that still 
Took joyful note of all things joyful, 

beam'd, 
Beneath a manelike mass of rolling 

gold, 
Their best and brightest, when they 

dwelt on hers, 
Edith, whose pensive beauty, perfect 

else, 
But subject to the season or the mood, 
Shone like a mystic star between the 

less 
And greater glory varying to and fro, 
We know not wherefore ; bounteously 

made, 
And yet so finely, that a troublous 

touch 
Thinn'd, or would seem to thin her in 

a day, 
A joyous to dilate, as toward the light. 
And these had been together from the 

first. 
Leolin's first nurse was, five years after, 

hers : 
So much the boy foreran ; but when 

his date 



Doubled her own, for want of play- 
mates, he 

(Since Averill was a decade and a half 

His elder, and their parents under- 
ground) 

Had tost his ball and flown his kite, 
and roll'd 

His hoop to pleasure Edith, with her 
dipt 

Against the rush of the air in the prone 
swing, 

Made blossom-ball or daisy chain, ar- 
ranged 

Her garden, sow'd her name and kept 
it green 

In living letters, told herfairy-ta^s, 

Show'd her the fairy footings on the 
grass, 

The little dells of cowslip, fairy palms, 

The petty marestail forest, fairy pines, 

Or from the tiny pitted target blew 

What look'd a flight of fairy arrows 
aim'd 

All at one mark, all hitting : make- 
believes 

For Edith and himself: or else he 
forged, 

But that was later, boyish histories 

Of battle, bold adventure, dungeon, 
wreck, 

Flights, terrors, sudden rescues, and 
true love 

CrownM after trial ; sketches rude and 
faint, 

But where a passion yet unborn per- 
haps 

Lay hidden as the music of the moon 

Sleeps in the plain eggs of the nightin- 
gale. 

And thus together, save for college- 
times 

Or Temple-eaten terms, a couple, fair 

As ever painter painted, poet sang, 

Or Heav'n in lavish bounty moulded, 
grew. 

And more and more, the maiden 
woman -grown, 

He wasted hours with Averill ; there, 
when first 

The tented winter-field was broken 
up 

Into that phalanx of the summer spears 

That soon should wear the garland ; 
there again 



33$ 



A YLMER'S FIELD. 



When burr and bine were gather'd ; 

lastly there 
At Christmas ; ever welcome at the 

Hall, 
On whose dull sameness his full tide of 

youth 
Broke with a phosphorescence cheering 

even 
My lady ; and the Baronet yet had 

laid 
No bar between them : dull and self- 
involved, 
Tall and erect, but bending from his 

height 
With half-allowing smiles for all the 

world, 
And mighty courteous in the main — 

his pride 
Lay deeper than to wear it as his ring — 
He, like an Aylmer in his Aylmerism, 
Would care no more for Leolin's walk- 
ing with her 
Than for his old Newfoundland's, when 

they ran 
To loose him at the stables, for he rose 
Twofooted at the limit of his chain, 
Roaring to make a third; and how 

should Love, 
Whom the cross-lightnings of four 

chance-met eyes 
Flash into fiery life from nothing, follow 
Such clear familiarities of dawn ? 
Seldom, but when he does, Master of 

all. 

So these young hearts not knowing 

that they loved, 
Not she at least, nor conscious of a 

bar 
Between them, nor by plight or broken 

ring 
Bound, but an immemorial intimacy, 
Wander'd at will, but oft accompanied 
By Averill : his, a brother's love, that 

hung 
With wings of brooding shelter o'er her 

peace, 
Might have been other, save for Leo- 
lin's — 
Who knows ? but so they wander'd, 

hour by hour 
Gather'd the blossom that rebloom'd, 

and drank 
The magic cup that fill'd itself anew. 



A whisper half reveal'd her to her- 
self. 
For out beyond her lodges, where the 

brook 
Vocal, with here and there a silence, 

ran 
By sallowy rims, arose the laborers' 

homes, 
A frequent haunt of Edith, on low 

knolls 
That dimpling died into each other, 

huts 
At random scatter'd, each a nest in 

bloom. 
Her art, her hand, her counsel all had 

wrought 
About them : here was one that, sum- 

mer-blanch'd, 
Was parcel-bearded with the traveller's- 
joy 
In Autumn, parcel ivy-clad ; and here 
The warm-blue breathings of a hidden 

hearth 
Broke from a bower of vine and honey- 
suckle : 
One look'd all rosetree, and another 

wore 
A close-set robe of jasmine sown with 

stars : 
This had a rosy sea of gillyflowers 
About it : this, a milky-way on earth, 
Like visions in the Northern dreamer's 

heavens, 
A lily-avenue climbing to the doors ; 
One, almost to the martin-haunted 

eaves 
A summer burial deep in hollyhocks ; 
Each, its own charm ; and Edith's 

everywhere ; 
And Edith ever visitant with him, 
He but less loved than Edith, of her 

poor: 
For she — so lowly-lovely and so loving, 
Queenly responsive when the loyal 

hand 
Rose from the clay it work'd in as she 

past, 
Not sowing hedgerow texts and passing 

by, 
Nor dealing goodly counsel from a 

height 
That makes the lowest hate it, but a 

voice 
Of comfort and an open hand of help, 



AYLMER'S FIELD. 



337 



A splendid presence flattering the poor 

roofs 
Revered as theirs, but kindlier than 

themselves 
To ailing wife or wailing infancy 
Or old bedridden palsy, — was adored ; 
He, loved for her and for himself. A 

grasp 
Having the warmth and muscle of the 

heart, 
A childly way with children, and a 

laugh 
Ringing like proven golden coinage 

true, 
Were no false passport to that easy 

realm, 
Where once with Leolin at her side 

the girl, 
Nursing a child, and turning to the 

warmth 
The tender pink five-beaded baby- 
soles, 
Heard the good mother softly whisper 

" Bless, 
God bless 'em ; marriages are made in 

Heaven." 

A flash of semi-jealousy clear'd it to 
her. 
My Lady's Indian kinsman unan- 
nounced 

With half a score of swarthy faces came. 
His own, tho' keen and bold and sol- 
dierly, 
iSear'd by the close ecliptic, wa* not 

fair; 
Fairer his talk, a tongue that ruled the 

hour, 
Tho' seeming boastful : so when first 

he dash'd 
•Jnto the chronicle of a deedful day, 
Sir Aylmer half forgot his lazy smile 
Of patron " Good ! my lady's kinsman ! 
| good ! " 

My lady with her fingers interlock'd, 
And rotatory thumbs on silken knees, 
Call'd all her vital spirits into each ear 
To listen : unawares they flitted off, 
"Busying themselves about the flower- 
age 
That stood from out a stiff brocade in 

which, 
The meteor of a splendid season, she, 
Dnce with this kinsman, ah so long ago, 



Stept thro' the stately minuet of those 

days : 
But Edith's eager fancy hurried with 

him 
Snatch'd thro' the perilous passes of 

his life : 
Till Leolin ever watchful of her eye 
Hated him with a momentary hate. 
Wife -hunting, as the rumor ran, was he : 
I know not, for he spoke not, only 

shower'd 
His oriental gifts on every one 
And most on Edith : like a storm he 

came, 
And shook the house, and like a storm 

he went. 

Among the gifts he left her (possibly 
He flow'd and ebb'd uncertain, to re- 
turn 
When others had been tested) there 

was one, 
A dagger, in rich sheath with jewels 

on it 
Sprinkled about in gold that branch'd 

itself 
Fine as ice-ferns on January panes 
Made by a breath. I know not whence 

at first, 
Nor of what race, the work ; but as he 

told 
The story, storming a hill-fort of 

thieves 
He got it ; for their captain after fight, 
His comrades having fought their last 

below, 
Was climbing up the valley ; at whom 

he shot : 
Down from the beetling crag to which 

he clung 
Tumbled the tawny rascal at his feet, 
This dagger with him, which when now 

admired 
By Edith whom his pleasure was to 

please, 
At once the costly Sahib yielded to her. 

And Leolin, coming after he was 
gone, 
Tost over all her presents petulantly : 
And when she show'd the wealthy 

scabbard, saying 
" Look what a lovely piece of work- 
manship 1 " 



338 



AYLMER' S FIELD. 



Slight was his answer "Well — I care 

not for it " : 
Then playing with the blade he prick'd 

his hand, 
" A gracious gift to give a lady, this ! " 
" But would it be more gracious," ask'd 

the girl, 
" Were I to give this gift of his to one 
That is no lady ? " "Gracious? No," 

said he. 
"Me? — but I cared not for it. O 

pardon me, 
I seem to be ungraciousness itself." 
"Take it," she added sweetly, " tho' 

his gift ; 
For I am more ungracious ev'n than 

you, 
I care not for it either " ; and he said 
" Why then 1 love it " : but Sir Aylmer 

past, 
And neither loved nor liked the thing 

he heard. 

The next day came a neighbor. 

Blues and reds 
They talk'd of: blues were sure of it, 

he thought : 
Then of the latest fox — where started — 

kill'd 
In such a bottom : " Peter had the 

brush, 
My Peter, first " : and did Sir Aylmer 

know 
That great pock-pitten fellow had been 

caught ? 
Then made his pleasure echo, hand to 

hand, 
And rolling as it were the substance 

of it 
Between his palms a moment up and 

down — 
" The birds were warm, the birds were 

warm upon him ; 
We have'him now " : and had Sir Ayl- 
mer heard — 
Nay, but he must — the land was ring- 
ing of it — 
This blacksmith-border marriage — one 

they knew — 
Raw from the nursery — who could trust 

a child ? 
That cursed France with her egali- 

ties ! 
And did Sir Aylmer (deferentially 



With nearing chair and lower'd accent) 

think — 
For people talk'd — that it was wholly 

wise 
To let that handsome fellow Averill 1 

walk 
So freely with his daughter? people I 

talk'd— 
The boy might get a notion into him ; j 
The girl might be entangled ere she I 

knew. 
Sir Aylmer Aylmer slowly stiffening 

spoke : 
"The girl and boy, Sir, know their 

differences ! " 
" Good, " said his friend, " but watch ! 1 

and he " Enough, 
More than enough, Sir ! I can guard II 

my own." 
They parted, and Sir Aylmer Aylmer \ 

watch' d. 

Pale, for on her the thunders of the ' I 

house 
Had fallen first, was Edith that same ! 

night : 
Pale as the Jephtha's daughter, a rough II 

piece 
Of early rigid color, under which 
Withdrawing by the counter door to J 

that 
Which Leolin open'd, she cast back I 

upon him 
A piteous glance, and vanish'd. He, [ 

as one 
Caught in a burst of unexpected storm, | 
And pelted with outrageous epithets, 
Turning beheld the Powers of the 

House 
On either side the hearth, indignant; 

her, 
Cooling her false cheek with a feather- 
fan, 
Him glaring, by his own stale devil 

spurr'd, |H.| 

And, like a beast hard-ridden, breath- 
ing hard. 
" Ungenerous, dishonorable, base, 
Presumptuous ! trusted as he was with 

her, 
The sole succeeder to their wealth, 

their lands, 
The last remaining pillar of their 

house, 



AYLMER' S FIELD. 



339 



£ he one transmitter of their ancient 

name, 
rheir child." " Our child ! " "Our 

heiress ! " " Ours ! " for still, 
^ike echoes from beyond a hollow, 

came 
ier sicklier iteration. Last he said 
' Boy, mark me ! for your fortunes are 

to make. 
. swear you shall not make them out of 

mine. 
■^ow inasmuch as you have practised 

on her, 
erplext her, made her half forget her- 
self, 
Jwerve from her duty to herself and 

us — 
j?hings in an Aylmer deem'd impos- 
sible, 
r ar as we track ourselves — I say that 

this,— 
Use I withdraw favor and countenance 
/rom you and yours forever — shall 

you do. 
-air, when you see her — but you shall 

not see her — 
/Jo, you shall write, and not to her, but 

me : 
Lnd you shall say that having spoken 
c with me, 

bid after look'd into yourself, you 

i find 

7hat you meant nothing — as indeed 

you know 
That you meant nothing. Such a match 

as this ! 
mpossible, prodigious ! " These were 
i words, 

^.s meted by his measure of himself, 
Arguing boundless forbearance: after 

which, 
And Leolin's horror-stricken answer, "I 
>o foul a traitor to myself and her, 
[Nfever, O never," for about as long 
Vs the wind-hover hangs in balance, 

paused 
>ir Aylmer reddening from the storm 

within, 
(Then broke all bonds of courtesy, and 

crying 
,' Boy, should I find you by my doors 

again, 
\ly men shall lash you from them like 

a dog; 



Hence 1 " with a sudden execration 

drove 
The footstool from before him, and 

arose ; 
So, stammering u scoundrel " out of 

teeth that ground 
As in a dreadful dream, while Leolin 

still 
Retreated half-aghast, the fierce old 

man 
Follow'd, and under his own lintel stood 
Storming with lifted hands, a hoary 

face 
Meet for the reverence of the hearth, 

but now, 
Beneath a pale and unimpassion'd 

moon, 
Vext with unworthy madness, and de- 
form' d. 

Slowly and conscious of the rageful 

eye 
That watch'd him, till he heard the 

ponderous door 
Close, crashing with long echoes thro* 

the land, 
Went Leolin ; then, his passions all in 

flood 
And masters of his motion, furiously _ 
Down thro' the bright lawns to his 

brother's ran, 
And foam'd away his heart at Averill's 

ear : 
Whom Averill solaced as he might, 

amazed : 
The man was his, had been his father's, 

friend : 
He must have seen, himself had seen 

it long ; 
He must have known, himself had 

known : besides, 
He never yet had set his daughter forth 
Here in the woman-markets of the 

west, 
Where our Caucasians let themselves 

be sold. 
Some one, he thought, had slander'd 

Leolin to him. 
" Brother, for I have loved you more 

as son 
Than brother, let me tell you : I my- 
self— 
What is their pretty saying? jilted, is it? 
Jilted I was : I say it for your peace. 



34° 



AYLMER'S FIELD. 



Pain'd, and, as bearing in myself the 

shame 
The woman should have borne, humil- 
iated, 
I lived for years a stunted sunless life ; 
Till after our good parents past away 
Watching your growth, I seem'd again 

to grow. 
Leolin, I almost sin in envying you : 
The very whitest lamb in all my fold 
Loves you : I know her : the worst 

thought she has 
Is whiter even than her pretty hand : 
She must prove true : for, brother, 

where two fight 
The strongest wins, and truth and love 

are strength, 
And you are happy : let her parents 

be." 

But Leolin cried out the more upon 
them — 

Insolent, brainless, heartless ! heiress, 
wealth, 

Their wealth, their heiress ! wealth 
enough was theirs 

For twenty matches. Were he lord of 
this, 

Why twenty boys and girls should 
marry on it, 

And forty blest ones bless him, and 
himself 

Be wealthy still, ay wealthier. He be- 
lieved 

This filthy marriage-hindering Mam- 
mon made 

The harlot of the cities ; nature crost 

Was mother of the foul adulteries 

That saturate soul with body. Name, 
too ! name, 

Their ancient name ! they might be 
proud ; its worth 

Was being Edith's. Ah how pale she 
had look'd 

Darling, to-night ! they must have 
rated her 

Beyond all tolerance. These old pheas- 
ant-lords, 

These partridge-breeders of a thou- 
sand years, 

Who had mildew'd in their thousands, 
doing nothing 

Since Egbert — why, the greater their 
disgrace ! 



Fall back upon a name ! rest, rot in 
that ! 

Not keep it noble, make it nobler? 
fools, 

With such a vantage-ground for noble- 
ness ! 

He had known a man, a quintessence 
of man, 

The life of all — who madly loved — 
and he, 

Thwarted by one of these old father- 
fools, 

Had rioted his life out, and made an end. 

He would not do it ! her sweet face 
and faith 

Held him from that : but he had pow- 
ers, he knew it : 

Back would he to his studies, make a 
name, 

Name, fortune too : the world should 
ring of him 

To shame these mouldy Aylmers in 
their graves : 

Chancellor, or what is greatest would 
he be — 

" O brother, I am grieved to learn your 
grief— m 

Give me my fling, and let me say my 
say." 

At which, like one that sees his own 

excess, 
And easily forgives it as his own, 
He laugh'd ; and then was mute ; but 

presently 
Wept like a storm : and honest Averill 

seeing 
How low his brother's mood had fallen, 

fetch'd 
His richest beeswing from a binn re- 
served 
For banquets, praised the waning red, 

and told 
The vintage — when this Aylmer came 

of age — 
Then drank and past it ; till at length 

the two, 
Tho' Leolin flamed and fell again, 

agreed 
That much allowance must be made 

for men. 
After an angry dream this kindlier glow 
Faded with morning, but his purpose 

held. • 



AYLMEWS FIELD. 



34i 



Yet once by night again the lovers 

met, 
A perilous meeting under the tall pines 
That darken'd all the northward of her 

Hall. 
Him, to her meek and modest bosom 

prest 
In agony, she promised that no force, 
Persuasion, no, nor death could alter 

her: 
He, passionately hopefuller, would go, 
Labor for his own Edith, and return 
In such a sunlight of prosperity 
He should not be rejected. " Write 

to me ! 
They loved me, and because I loved 

their child 
They hate me : there is war between us, 

dear, 
Which breaks all bonds but ours ; we 

must remain 
Sacred to one another." So they talk'd, 
Poor children, for their comfort : the 

wind blew ; 
The rain of heaven, and their own 

bitter tears, 
Tears, and the careless rain of heaven, 

mixt 
Upon their faces, as they kiss'd each 

other 
In darkness, and above them roar'd the 

pine. 

So Leolin went ; and as we task our- 
selves 

To learn a language known but smat- 
teringly 

In phrases here and there at random, 
toil'd 

Mastering the lawless science of our 
law, 

That codeless myriad of precedent, 

That wilderness of single instances, 

Thro' which a few, by wit or fortune led, 

May beat a pathway out to wealth and 
fame. 

The jests, that flash'd about the plead- 
er's room, 

Lightning of the hour, the pun, the 
scurrilous tale, — 

Old scandals buried now seven decades 
deep 

In other scandals that have lived and 
died, 



And left the living scandal that shall 

die — 
Were dead to him already ; bent as he 

was 
To make disproof of scorn, and strong 

in hopes, 
And prodigal of all brain-labor he, 
Charier of sleep, and wine and exercise, 
Except when for a breathing-while at 

eve, 
Some niggard fraction of an hour, he 

ran 
Beside the river-bank : and then indeed 
Harder the times were, and the hands 

of power 
Were bloodier, and the according hearts 

of men 
Seem'd harder too ; but the soft river- 
breeze, 
Which fann'd the gardens of that rival 

rose 
Yet fragrant in a heart remembering^ 
His former talks with Edith, on him 

breathed 
Far purelier in his rushings to and fro, 
After his books, to flush his blood with 

air, 
Then to his books again. My lady's 

cousin, 
Half- sickening of his pension'd after- 
noon, 
Drove in upon the student once or 

twice, 
Ran a Malayan muck against the times, 
Had golden hopes for France and all 

mankind, 
Answer'd all queries touching those at 

home 
With a heaved shoulder and a saucy 

smile, 
And fain had haled him out into the 

world, 
And air'd him there : his nearer friend 

would say, 
" Screw not the chord too sharply lest 

it snap." 
Then left alone he pluck'd her dagger 

forth 
From where his worldless heart had 

kept it warm, 
Kissing his vows upon it like a knight. 
And wrinkled benchers often talk'd of 

him 
Approvingly, and prophesied his rise : 



342 



AYLMEIVS FIELD. 



For heart, I think, help'd head : her 

letters too, 
Tho' far between, and coming fitfully 
Like broken music, written as she 

found 
Or made occasion, being strictly watch'd, 
(Jharm'd him thro' every labyrinth till 

he saw 
An end, a hope, a light breaking upon 

him. 

But they that cast her spirit into 

flesh, 
Her worldly-wise begetters, plagued 

themselves 
To sell her, those good parents, for her 

good. 
Whatever eldest-bom of rank or wealth 
Might lie within their compass, him 

they lured 
Into their net made pleasant by the 

baits 
Of gold and beauty, wooing him to 

woo. 
So month by month the noise about 

their doors, 
And distant blaze of those dull ban- 
quets, made 
The nightly wirer of their innocent hare 
Falter before he took it. All in vain. 
Sullen, defiant, pitying, wroth, return'd 
Leolin's rejected rivals from their suit 
So often, that the folly taking wings 
Slipt o'er those lazy limits down the 

wind 
With rumor, and became in other fields 
A mockery to the yeomen over ale, 
And laughter to their lords : but those 

at home, 
As hunters round a hunted creature 

draw 
The cordon close and closer toward the 

death, 
Narrow'd her goings out and comings 

in ; 
Forbade her first the house of Averill, 
Then closed her access to the wealthier 

farms, 
Last from her own home-circle of the 

poor 
They barr'd her : yet she bore it : yet 

her cheek 
Kept color : wondrous ! but, O mys- 
tery ! 



What amulet drew her down to that 
old oak, 

So old, that twenty years before, a part 

Falling had let appear the brand of 
John — 

Once grovelike, each huge arm a tree, 
but now 

The broken base of a black tower, a cave 

Of touchwood, with a single flourish- 
ing spray. 

There the manorial lord too curiously 

Raking in that millennial touchwood- 
dust 

Found- for himself a bitter treasure- 
trove ; 

Burst his own wyvern on the seal, and 
read 

Writhing a letter from his child, for 
which 

Came at the moment Leolin's emis- 
sary, 

A crippled lad, and coming turn'd to fly, 

But scared with threats of jail and 
halter gave 

To him that fluster'd his poor parish 
wits 

The letter which he brought, and swore 
besides 

To play their go-between as heretofore 

Nor let them know themselves be- 
tray'd, and then, 

Soul-stricken at their kindness to him, 
went 

Hating his own lean heart and misera- 
ble. 

Thenceforward oft from out a despot 

dream 
Panting he woke, and oft as early as 

dawn 
Aroused the black republic on his elms, 
Sweeping the frothily horn the fescue, 

brush'd 
Thro' the dim meadow toward his treas- 
ure-trove, 
Seized it, took home, and to my lady, 

who made 
A downward crescent of her minion 

mouth, 
Listless in all despondence, read ; and 

tore, 
As if the living passion symbol'd there 
Were living nerves to leel the rent ; 

and burnt, 



AYLMER" S FIELD. 



343 



Now chafing at his own great self de- 
fied, 
Now striking on huge stumbling-blocks 

of scorn 
In babyisms, and dear diminutives 
Scatter'd all over the vocabulary 
^Of such a love as like a chidden babe, 
After much wailing, hush'd itself at 

last 
£ Hopeless of answer : then tho' Averill 

wrote 
And bade him with good heart sustain 

himself — 
All would be well — the lover heeded 

not, 
But passionately restless came and 

went, 
And rustling once at night about the 

place, 
There by a keeper shot at, slightly hurt, 
Raging return'd: nor was it well for 

her 
Kept to the garden now, and grove of 

pines, 
Watch'd even there ; and one was set 

to watch 
The watcher, and Sir Aylmer watch'd 

them all, 
Yet bitterer from his readings : once 

indeed, . 
Warm'd with his wines, or taking pride 

in her, 
She look'd so sweet, he kiss'd her 

tenderly 
Not knowing what possess'd him : that 

one kiss 
Was Leolin's one strong rival upon 

earth ; 
Seconded, for my lady follow'd suit, 
Seem'd hope's returning rose : and then 

ensued 
A Martin's summer of his faded love, 
Or ordeal by kindness ; after this 
He seldom crost his child without a 

sneer ; 
The mother flow'd in shallower acri- 
monies : 
Never one kindly smile, one kindly 

word : 
So that the gentle creature shut from 

all 
Her charitable use, and face to face 
With twenty months of silence, slowly 

lost 



Nor greatly cared to lose, her hold on 

life. 
Last, some low fever ranging round to 

spy 
The weakness of a people or a house, 
Like flies that haunt a wound, or deer, 

or men, 
Or almost all that fs, hurting the hurt — 
Save Christ as we believe him — found 

the girl 
And flung her down upon a couch of 

fire, 
Where careless of the household faces 

near, 
And crying upon the name of Leolin, 
She, and with her the race of Aylmer, 

past. 

Star to star vibrates light : may soul 

to soul 
Strike thro' a finer element of her 

own? 
So, — from afar,— touch as at once ? or 

why 
That night, that moment, when she 

named his name, 
Did the keen shriek, " Yes love, yes 

Edith, yes," 
Shrill, till the comrade of his chambers 

woke, 
And came upon him half- arisen from 

sleep, 
With a weird bright eye, sweating and 

trembling, 
His hair as it were crackling into 

flames, 
His body half flung forward in pursuit, 
And his long arms stretch'd as to grasp 

a flyer : 
Nor knew he wherefore he had made 

the cry ; 
And being much befool'd and idioted 
By the rough amity of the other, sank 
As into sleep again. The second day, 
My lady's Indian kinsman rushing in, 
A breaker of the bitter news from home, 
Found a dead man, a letter edged with 

death 
Beside him, and the dagger which him- 
self 
Gave Edith, redden'd with no bandit's 

blood : 
" From Edith " was engraven on the 

blade. 



344 



A YLMER'S FIELD. 



Then Averill went and gazed upon 

his death. 
And when he came again, his flock be- 
lieved — 
Beholding how the years which are not 

Time's 
Had blasted him — that many thousand 

days 
Were dipt by horror from his term of 

life. 
Yet the sad mother, for the second 

death 
Scarce touch'd her thro' that nearness 

of the first, 
And being used to find her pastor 

texts, 
Sent to the harrow'd brother, praying 

him 
To speak before the people of her 

child, 
And fixt the Sabbath. Darkly that day 

rose : 
Autumn's mock sunshine of the faded 

woods 
Was all the life of it ; for hard on these, 
A breathless burthen of low-folded 

heavens 
Stifled and chill'd at once : but every 

roof 
Sent out a listener : many too had 

known 
Edith among the hamlets round, and 

since 
The parents' harshness and the hapless 

loves 
And double death were widely mur- 

mur'd, left 
Their own gray tower, or plain-faced 

tabernacle, 
To hear him ; all in mourning these, 

and those 
With blots of it about them, ribbon, 

glove 
Or kerchief; while the church, — one 

night, except 
For greenish glimmerings thro' the 

lancets, — made 
Still paler the pale head of him, who 

tower' d 
Above them, with his hopes in either 

grave. 

Long o'er his bent brows linger'd 
Averill, 



His face magnetic to the hand from 

which 
Livid he pluck'd it forth, and labor'd 

thro' 
His brief prayer-prelude, gave the verse 

" Behold, 
Your house is left unto you desolate ! " 
But lapsed into so long a pause again 
As half amazed half frighted all his 

flock : 
Then from his height and loneliness of 

grief 
Bore down in flood, and dash*d his 

angry heart 
Against the desolations of the world. 

Never since our bad earth became 

one sea, 
Which rolling o'er the palaces of the 

proud, 
And all but those who knew the living 

God — 
Eight that were left to make a purer 

world — 
When since had flood, fire, earthquake, 

thunder, wrought 
Such waste and havoc as the idola- 
tries, 
Which from the low light of mortality 
Shot up their shadows to the Heaven 

of Heavens, 
And worshipt their owti darkness as the 

Highest ? 
" Gash thyself, priest, and honor thy 

brute Baal, 
And to thy worst self sacrifice thyself, 
For with thy worst self hast thou 

clothed thy God." 
Then came a Lord in no wise like to 

Baal. 
The babe shall lead the lion. Surely 

now 
The wilderness shall blossom as the 

rose. 
Crown thyself, worm, and worship 

thine own lusts ! — 
No coarse and blockish God of acreage 
Stands at thy gate for thee to grovel 

to — 
Thy God is far diffused in noble groves 
And princely halls, and farms, and flow- 
ing lawns, 
And heaps of living gold that daily 

grow, 



A YLMEWS FIELD. 



345 



And title-scrolls and gorgeous herald- 
ries. 

In such a shape dost thou behold thy 
God. 

Thou wilt not gash thy flesh for him; 
for thine 

Fares richly, in fine linen, not a hair 

Riiifted upon the scarfskin, even while 

The deathless ruler of thy dying house 

Is wounded to the death that cannot 
die ; 

And tho' thou numberest with the fol- 
lowers 

Of One who cried " Leave all and fol- 
low me." 

Thee therefore with His light about thy 
feet, 

Thee with His message ringing in thine 
ears, 

Thee shall thy brother man, the Lord 
from Heaven, 

Born of a village girl, carpenter's son, 

Wonderful, Prince of peace, the Mighty 
God, 

Count the more base idolater of the 
two ; 

Crueller : as not passing thro' the fire 

Bodies, but souls — thy children's — 
thro' the smoke. 

The blight of low desires — darkening 
thine own 

To thine own likeness ; or if one of 
these, ■*» 

Thy better born unhappily from thee, 

Should, as by miracle, grow straight 
and fair — 

Friends, I was bid to speak of such a 
one 

By those who most have cause to sor- 
row for her — 

Fairer than Rachel by the palmy well, 

Fairer than Ruth among the fields of 
corn, 

Fair as the Angel that said " hail " she 
seem'd, 

Who entering fill'd the house with sud- 
den light. 

For so mine own was brighten' d : where 
indeed 

The roof so lowly but that beam of 
Heaven 

Dawn'd sometimes thro' the doorway ? 
whose the babe 

Too ragged to be fondled on her lap, 



Warm'd at her bosom ? The poor child 

of shame, 
The common care whom no one cared 

for, leapt 
To greet her, wasting hisforgotten heart, 
As with the mother he had never known, 
In gambols ; for her fresh and innocent 

eyes 
Had such a star of morning in their blue, 
That all neglected places of the field 
Broke into nature's music when they 

saw her. 
Low was her voice, but won mysterious 

way 
Thro' the seal'd ear to which a louder 

one 
Was all but silence — free of alms her 

hand — 
The hand that robed your cottage-walls 

with flowers 
Has often toil'd to clothe your little 

ones ; 
How often placed upon the sick man's 

brow 
Cool'd it, or laid his feverous pillow 

smooth ! 
Had you one sorrow and she shared it 

not? 
One burthen and she would not lighten 

it? 
One spiritual doubt she did not soothe ? 
Or when some heat of difference spark- 
led out, 
How sweetly would she glide between 

your wraths, 
And steal you from each other ! for she 

walk'd 
Wearing the light yoke of that Lord of 

love, 
Who still'd the rolling wave of Galilee ! 
And one — of him I was not bid to 

speak — 
Was always with her, whom you also 

knew. 
Him too you loved, for he was worthy 

love. 
And these had been together from the 

first; 
They might have been together till tha 

last. 
Friends, this frail bark of ours, when 

sorely tried, 
May wreck itself without the pilot'? 

guilt, 



34^ 



AYLMER'S FIELD. 



Without the captain's knowledge : 

hope with me. 
Whose shame is that, if he went hence 

with shame ? 
Nor mine the fault, if losing both of 

these 
I cry to vacant chairs and widow' d 

walls, 
" My house is left unto me desolate." 

While thus he spoke, his hearers 
wept ; but some. 

Sons of the glebe, with other frowns 
than those 

That knit themselves for summer shad- 
ow, scowl'd 

At their great lord. He, when it seem'd 
he saw 

No pale sheet-lightnings from afar, but 
fork'd 

Of the near storm, and aiming at his 
head, 

Sat anger-charm' d from sorrow, soldier- 
like, 

Erect : but when the preacher's ca- 
dence flow'd 

Softening thro' all the gentle attributes 

Of his lost child, the wife, who watch'd 
his face, 

Paled at a sudden twitch of his iron 
mouth ; 

And " O pray God that he hold up," 
she thought, 

" Or surely I shall shame myself and 
him." 

" Nor yours the blame — for who be- 
side your hearths 

Can take her place — if echoing me you 
cry 

' Our house is left unto us desolate ' ? 

But thou, O thou that killest, hadst 
thou known, 

O thou that stonest, hadst thou under- 
stood 

The things belonging to thy peace and 
ours ! 

Is there no prophet but the voice that 
calls 

Doom upon kings, or in the waste 
' Repent ' ? 

Is not our own child on the narrow way, 

Who down to those that saunter in the 
broad 



Cries ' Come up hither,' as a prophet 
to us? 

Is there no stoning save with flint and 
rock? 

Yes, as the dead we weep for testify — 

No desolation but by sword and fire ? 

Yes, as your moanings witness, and 
myself 

Am lonelier, darker, earthlier for my 
loss. 

Give me your prayers, for he is past 
your prayers, 

Not past the living fount of pity in 
Heaven. 

But I that thought myself long-suffer- 
ing, meek, 

Exceeding ' poor in spirit ' — how the 
words 

Have twisted back upon themselves, 
and mean 

Vileness, we are grown so proud — I 
wish'd my voice 

A rushing tempest of the wrath of God 

To blow these sacrifices thro' the 
world — 

Sent like the twelve-divided concubine 

To inflame the tribes : but there — out 
yonder — earth 

Lightens from her own central Hell — 
O there 

The red fruit of an old idolatry — 

The heads of chiefs and princes fall so 
fast, 

They cling together in the ghastly 
sack — 

The land all shambles — naked mar- 
riages 

Flash from the bridge, and ever-mur- 
der'd France, 

By shores that darken with the gather- 
ing wolf, 

Runs in a river of blood to the s'ck sea. 

Is this a time to madden madness then ? 

Was this a time for these to flaunt their 
pride ? 

May Pharaoh's darkness, folds as dense 
as those 

Which hid the Holiest from the peo- 
ple's eyes 

Ere the great death, shroud this great 
sin from all : 

Doubtless our narrow world must can- 
vass it : 

O rather pray for those and pity them, 



AYLMER'S FIELD. 



347 



Who thro' their own desire accom- 
plished -bring 

Their own gray hairs with sorrow to the 

grave — 
Who broke. the bond which they de- 
sired to break — 
Which else had link'd their race with 

times to come — 
Who wove coarse webs to snare her 

purity, 
Grossly contriving their dear daughter's 

good — 
Poor souls, and knew not what they 

did, but sat 
Ignorant, devising their own daughter's 

death ! 
May not that earthly chastisement suf- 
fice? 
Have not our love and reverence left 

them bare ? 
Will not another take their heritage ? 
Will there be children's laughter in 

their hall 
Forever and forever, or one stone 
Left on another, or is it a light thing 
That I their guest, their host, their 

ancient friend, 
I made by these the last of all my 

race 
Must cry to these the last of theirs, as 

cried 
Christ ere His agony to those that 

swore 
Not by the temple but the gold, and 

made 
Their own traditions God, and slew the 

Lord, 
And left their memories a world's 

curse — ' Behold, 
Your house is left unto you desolate ' ? " 

Ended he had not, but she brook'd 
no more : 

Long since her heart had beat remorse- 
lessly, 

Her crampt-up sorrow pain'd her, and 
a sense 

Of meanness in her unresisting life. 

Then their eyes vext her ; for on en- 
tering 

He had cast the curtains of their seat 
aside — 

Black velvet of the costliest — she her- 
self 



Had seen to that : fain had she closed 

them now, 
Yet dared not stir to do it, only near'd 
Her husband inch by inch, but when 

she laid, 
Wifelike, her hand in one of his, he 

veil'd 
His face with the other, and at once, as 

falls 
A creeper when the prop is broken, fell 
The woman shrieking at his feet, and 

swoon'd. 
Then her own people bore along the 

nave 
Her pendent hands, and narrow meagre 

face 
Seam'd with the shallow cares of fifty 

years : 
And her the Lord of all the landscape 

round 
Ev'n to its last horizon, and of all 
Who peer'd at him so keenly, follow'd 

out 
Tall and erect, but in the middle aisle 
Reel'd, as a footsore ox in crowded 

ways 
Stumbling across the market to his 

' death, 
Unpitied : for he groped as blind, and 

seem'd 
Always about to fall, grasping the pews 
And oaken finials till he touch' d the 

door ; 
Yet to the lychgate, where his chariot 

stood, 
Strode from the porch, tall and erect 

again. 

But nevermore did either pass the 

gate 
Save under pall with bearers. In one 

month, 
Thro' weary and yet ever wearier hours, 
The childless mother went to seek her 

child ; 
And when he felt the silence of his 

house 
About him, and the change and not the 

change, 
And those fixt eyes of painted an- 
cestors 
Staring forever from their gilded walls 
On him their last descendant, his own 

head 



348 



SEA DEE A MS. 



Began to droop, to fall ; the man be- 
came 
Imbecile ; his one word was " deso- 
late " ; 
Dead for two years before his death was 

he; 
But when the second Christmas came, 

escaped 
His keeoers, and the silence which he 

felt, 
To find a deeper in the narrow gloom 
By wife and child ; nor wanted at his 

end 
The dark retinue reverencing death 
At golden thresholds ; nor from tender 

hearts, 
And those who sorrow'd o'er a vanish'd 

race, 
Pity, the violet on the tyrant's grave. 
Then the great Hall was wholly broken 

down, 
And the broad woodland parcell'd into 

farms ; 
And where the two contrived their 

daughter's good, 
Lies the hawk's cast, the mole has made 

his run, 
The hedgehog underneath the plantain 

bores, 
The rabbit fondles his own harmless 

face, 
The slow-worm creeps, and the thin 

weasel there 
Follows the mouse, and all is open field. 



SEA DREAMS. 

A city clerk, but gently born and 
bred ; 

His wife, an unknown artist's orphan 
child — 

One babe was theirs, a Margaret, three 
years old : 

They, thinking that her clear german- 
der eye 

Droopt in the giant-factoried city- 
gloom, 

Came, with a month's leave given them, 
to the sea : 

For which his gains were dock'd, how- 
ever small : 



Small were his gains, and hard his 

work ; besides, 
Their slender household fortunes (for 

the man 
Had risk'd his little) like the little 

thrift, 
Trembled in perilous places o'er a deep ; 
And oft, when sitting all alone, his face 
Would darken, as he cursed his credu- 

lousness, 
And that one unctuous mouth which 

lured him, rogue, 
To buy strange shares in some Peru- 
vian mine. 
Now seaward-bound for health they 

gain'd a coast, 
All sand and cliff and deep-inrur.ning 

cave, 
At close of day ; slept, woke, and went 

the next, 
The Sabbath, pious variers from the 

church, 
To chapel ; where a heated pulpiteer, 
Not preaching simple Christ to simple 

men, 
Announced the coming doom, and ful- 
minated 
Against the scarlet woman and her 

creed : 
For sideways up he swung his arms, 

and shriek'd, 
"Thus, thus with violence," ev'n as if 

he held 
The Apocalyptic millstone, and himself 
Were that great Angel ; " thus with 

violence 
Shall Babylon be cast into the sea ; 
Then conies the close." The gentle- 
hearted wife 
Sat shuddering at the ruin of a world ; 
He at his own : but when the wordy 

storm 
Had ended, forth they came and paced 

the shore v 
Ran in and out the long sea-framing 

caves, 
Drank the large air, and saw, but scarce 

believed 
(The sootflake of so many a summer 

still 
Clung to their fancies ) that they saw, 

the sea. 
So now on sand they walk'd, and now 
on cliff, 



SEA DREAMS. 



349 



Lingering about the thymy promonto- 
ries, 

Till all the sails were darken' d in the 
west. 

And rosed in the east : then home- 
ward and to bed : 

Where she, who kept a tender Chris- 
tian hope 

Haunting a holy text, and still to that 

Returning, as the bird returns, at night, 

" Let not the sun go down upon your 
wrath," 

Said, " Love, forgive him " : but he did 
not speak ; 

And silenced by that silence lay the 
wife, 

Remembering her dear Lord who died 
for all, 

And musing on the little lives of men, 

And how they mar this little by their 
feuds. 

But while the two were sleeping, a 

full tide 
Rose with ground-swell, which, on the 

foremost rocks 
Touching, upjetted in spirts of wild 

sea-smoke, 
And scaled in sheets of wasteful foam, 

and fell 
In vast sea-cataracts — ever and anon 
Dead claps of thunder from within the 

cliffs 
Heard thro' the living roar. At this 

the babe, 
Their Margaret cradled near them, 

wail'd and wolce 
The mother, and the father suddenly 

cried, 
" A wreck, a wreck ! " then turn'd, and 

groaning said, 

" Forgive ! How many will say, ' For- 
give,' and find 

A sort of absolution in the sound 

To. hate a little longer ! No; the sin 

That neither God nor man can well 
forgive, 

Hypocrisy, I saw it in him at once. 

Is it so true that second thoughts are 
best? 

Not first, and third, which are a riper 
first ? 

Too ripe, too late ! they come too late 
for use. 



Ah love, there surely lives in man and 

beast 
Something divine to warn them of their 

foes ; 
And such a sense, when first I fronted 

him, 
Said, ' Trust him not ' ; but after, when 

I came 
To know him more, I lost it, knew him 

less ; 
Fought with what seem'd my own un- 

charity ; 
Sat at his table ; drank his costly wines ; 
Made more and more allowance for his 

talk; 
Went further, fool ! and trusted him 

with all, 
All my poor scrapings from a dozen 

years 
Of dust and deskwork : there is no such 

mine, 
None ; but a gulf of ruin, swallowing 

gold, 
Not making. Ruin'd ! ruin'd 1 the sea 

roars 
Ruin : a fearful night ! " 

"Not fearful ; fair," 
Said the good wife, " if every star in 

heaven 
Can make it fair : you do but hear the 

tide. 
Had you ill dreams? " 

" O yes," he said, " I dream'd 
Of such a tide swelling toward the land, 
And I from out the boundless outer 

deep 
Swept with it to the shore, and enter'd 

one 
Of those dark caves that run beneath 

the cliffs. 
I thought the motion of the boundless 

deep 
Bore through the cave, and I was 

heaved upon it 
In darkness : then I saw one lovely star 
Larger and larger. ' What a world,' 

I thought, 
'To live in!' but in moving on I 

found 
Only the landward exit of the cave, 
Bright with the sun upon the stream 

beyond : 



350 



SEA DREAMS. 



And near the light a giant woman sat. 
All over earthy, like a piece of earth, 
A pickaxe in her hand : then out I slipt 
Into a land all sun and blossom, trees 
As high as heaven, and every bird that 

sings : 
And here the night-light flickering in 

my eyes 
Awoke me." 

"That was then your dream, "she said, 
" Not sad, but sweet." 

" So sweet. I lay," said he, 
" And mused upon it, drifting up the 

stream 
In fancy, till I slept again, and pieced 
The broken vision ; for I dream'd that 

still 
The motion of the great deep bore me 

on, 
And that the woman walk'd upon the 

brink : 
I wonder'd at her strength, and ask'd 

her of it : 
' It came,' she said, ' by working in the 

mines ' : 
O then to ask her of my shares, I 

thought ; 
And ask'd ; but not a word ; she shook 

her head. 
And then the motion of the current 

ceased, 
And there was rolling thunder ; and we 

reach' d 
A mountain, like a wall of burs and 

thorns ; 
But she with her strong feet up the 

steep hill 
Trod out a path : I follow'd ; and at top, 
She pointed seaward : there a fleet of 

glass, 
That seem'd a fleet of jewels under 

me, 
Sailing along before a gloomy cloud 
That not one moment ceased to thun- 
der, past 
In sunshine : right across its track 

there lay, 
Down in the water, a long reef of gold, 
Or what seem'd gold : and I was glad 

at first 
To think that in our often-ransack'd 

world 



Still so much gold was left ; and then I 

fear'd 
Lest the gay navy there should splinter 

on it, 
And fearing waved my arm to warn 

them off; 
An idle signal, for the brittle fleet 
(I thought I could have died to save it) 

near'd, 
Touch'd, clink'd, and clash'd, and van- 

ish'd, and I woke, 
I heard the clash so clearly. Now I see 
My dream was Life ; the woman honest 

Work; 
And my poor venture but a fleet of 

glass 
Wreck'd on a reef of visionary gold." 

" Nay," said the kindly wife to com- 
fort him, 

" You raised your arm, you tumbled 
down and broke 

The glass with little Margaret's medi- 
cine in it ; 

And, breaking that, you made and 
broke your dream : 

A trifle makes a dream, a trifle breaks." 

" No trifle," groan'd the husband ; 

" yesterday 
I met him suddenly in the street, and 

ask'd 
That which I ask'd the woman in my 

dream. 
Like her, he shook his head. ' Show 

me the books ! ' 
He dodged me with a long and loose 

account. 
1 The books, the books ! ' but he, he 

could not wait, 
Bound on a matter he of life and death : 
When the great Books (see Daniel 

seven and ten) 
Were open'd, I should find he meant 

me well ; 
And then began to bloat himself, and 

ooze 
All over with the fat affectionate smile 
That makes the widow lean. ' My 

dearest friend, 
Have faith, have faith ! We live by 

faith,' said he ; 
' And all things work together for the 

good 



SEA DREAMS. 



35 1 



Df those ' — it makes me sick to quote 

him — last 
jript my hand hard, and with God- 

bless-you went. 
I stood like one that had received a 

blow : 

[ found a hard friend in his loose ac- 
counts, 
A loose one in the hard grip of his 

hand, 
A curse in his God-bless-you : then my 

eyes 
Pursued him down the street, and far 

away, 
Among the honest shoulders of the 

crowd, 
Read rascal in the motions of his back, 
And scoundrel in the supple-sliding 

knee." 

" Was he so bound, poor soul ? " 

said the good wife ; 
" So are we all : but do not call him, 

love, 
Before you prove him, rogue, and 

proved, forgive. 
His gain is loss ; for he that wrongs his 

friend 
Wrongs himself more, and ever bears 

about 
A silent court of justice in his breast, 
Himself the judge and jury, and him- 
self 
The prisoner at the bar, ever con- 

demn'd : 
And that drags down his life : then 

comes what comes 
Hereafter : and he meant, he said he 

meant, 
Perhaps he meant, or partly meant, you 

well." 

" ' With all his conscience and one 

eye askew ' — 
Love, let me quote these lines, that you 

may learn 
A man is likewise counsel for himself, 
Too often, in that silent court of yours — 
' With all his conscience and one eye 

askew, 
So false, he partly took himself for 

true ; 
Whose pious talk, when most his heart 

was dry, 



Made wet the crafty crowsfoot round 

his eye ; 
Who, never naming God except for gain, 
So never took that useful name in vain ; 
Made him His catspaw and the Cross 

his tool, 
And Christ the bait to trap his dupe 

and fool ; 
Nor deeds of gift, but gifts of grace he 

forged, 
And snakelike slimed his victim ere he 

gorged ; 
And oft at Bible meetings, o'er the rest 
Arising, did his holy oily best, 
Dropping the too rough H in Hell and 

Hq^ven, 
To spread the Word by which himself 

had thriven.' 
How like you this old satire ? " 

" Nay," she said, 
" I loathe it : he had never kindly heart, 
Nor ever cared to better his own kind, 
Who first wrote satire, with no pity in it. 
But will you hear my dream, for I had 

one 
That altogether went to music ? Still 
It awed me." 

Then she told it, having dream 'd 
Of that same coast. 

— " But round the North, a light, 
A belt, it seem'd, of luminous vapor, 

lay, 
And ever in it a low musical note 
Swell'd up and died; and, as it swell'd, 

a ridge 
Of breaker issued from the belt, and still 
Grew with the growing note, and when 

the note 
Had reach'd a thunderous fulness, on 

those cliffs 
Broke, mixt with awful light (the same 

as that 
Living within the belt) whereby she saw 
That all those lines of cliffs were cliffs 

no more, 
But huge cathedral fronts of every age, 
Grave, florid, stern, as far as eye could 

see, 
One after one : and then the great 

ridge drew, 
Lessening to the lessening music, back, 



352 



SEA DREAMS. 



And past into the belt and swell'd again 
Slowly to music : ever when it broke 
The statues, king or saint, or founder 

fell; 
Then from the gaps and chasms of ruin 

left 
Came men and women in dark clusters 

round, 
Some crying, ' Set them up ! they shall 

not fall ! ' 
And others, ' Let them lie, for they have 

fall' n.' 
And still they strove and wrangled : 

and she grieved 
In her strange dream, she knew not 

why, to find £ 

Their wildest wailings never out of tune 
With that sweet note ; and ever as their 

shrieks 
Ran highest up the gamut, that great 

wave 
Returning, while none mark'd it, on 

the crowd 
Broke, mixt with awful light, and 

show'd their eyes 
Glaring, and passionate looks, and 

swept away 
The men of flesh and blood, and men 

of stone, 
To the waste deeps together. 

" Then I fixt 
My wistful eyes on two fair images, 
Both crown' d with stars and high 

among the stars, — 
The Virgin Mother standing with her 

child 
High up on one of those dark minster- 
fronts — 
Till she began to totter, and the child 
Clung to the mother, and sent out a cry 
Which ^nixt with little Margaret's, and 

I woke, 
And my dr£am awed me : — well — but 

what are dreams? 
Yours came but from the breaking of a 

glass, 
And mine but from the crying of a 

child." 

" Child ? No ! " said he, " but this 
tide's roar, and his, 
Our Boanerges with his threats of 
doom, 



And loud-lung' d Antibabylonianisms 
(Altho' I grant but little music there) 
Went both to make your dream : but if 

there were 
A music harmonizing our wild cries, 
Sphere-music such as that you dream'd 

about, 
Why, that would make our passions far 

too like 
The discords dear to the musician. 

No — 
One shriek of hate would jar all the 

hymns of heaven : 
True Devils with no ear, they howl in 

tune 
With nothing but the Devil ! " 

" ' True ' indeed ! 

One of our town, but later by an hour 

Here than ourselves, spoke with me on 
the shore ; 

While you were running down the 
sands, and made 

The dimpled flounce of the sea-fur- 
below flap, 

Good man, to please the child. She 
brought strange news. 

Why were you silent when I spoke to- 
night ? 

I had set my heart on your forgiving 
him 

Before you knew. We must forgive the 
dead.'' 

" Dead ! who is dead ? " 

" The man your eye pursued. 
A little after you had parted with him. 
He suddenly dropt dead of heart-dis- 



"Dead? he? of heart-disease? what 
heart had he 
To die of? dead ! " 

"Ah, dearest, if there be 
A devil in man, there is an angel too, 
And if he did that wrong you charge 

him with, 
His angel broke his heart. But your 

rough voice 
(You spoke so loud) has roused the 

child again. 
Sleep, little birdie, sleep ! will she not 

sleep 



THE GRANDMOTHER. 



353 



Without her ' little birdie ' ? well then, 

sleep, 
And I will sing you ' birdie.' " 

Saying this, 

The woman half turn'd round from him 
she loved, 

Left him one hand, and reaching thro' 
the night 

Her other, found (for it was close be- 
side) 

And half embraced the basket cradle- 
head 

With one soft arm, which, like the 
pliant bough 

That moving moves the nest and nest- 
ling, sway'd 

The cradle, while she sang this baby 
song. 

What does little birdie say 
In her nest at peep of day? 
Let me fly, says little birdie, 
Mother, let me fly away. 
Birdie, rest a little longer, 
Till the little wings are stronger. 
So she rests a little longer, 
Then she flies away. 



What does little baby say, 
In her bed at peep of day? 
Baby says, like little birdie, 
Let me rise and fly away. 
Baby, sleep a little longer, 
Till the little limbs are stronger. 
If she sleeps a little longer, 
Baby too shall fly away. 

" She sleeps : let us too, let all evil, 

sleep. 
He also sleeps — another sleep than 

ours. 
He can do no more wrong : forgive him, 

dear, 
And I shall sleep the sounder ! " 

Then the man, 
" His deeds yet live, the worst is yet to 

come. 
Yet let your sleep for this one night be 

sound : 
I do forgive him ! " 

"Thanks, my love," she said, 
" Your own will be the sweeter," and 
they slept. 



THE GRANDMOTHER, 
i. 

And Willy, my eldest-born, is gone, you say, little Anne ? 
Ruddy and white, and strong on his legs, he looks like a man. 
And Willy's wife has written : she never was over- wise, 
Never the wife for Willy : he would n't take my advice. 

ii. 
For, Annie, you see, her father was not the man to save, 
Hadn't a head to manage, and drank himself into his grave. 
Pretty enough, very pretty ! but I was against it for one. 
Eh ! — but he would n't hear me — and Willy, you say, is gone. 

in. 
Willy, my beauty, my eldest-born, the flower of the flock ; 
Never a man could fling him : for Willy stood like a rock. 
" Here 's a leg for a baby of a week ! " says doctor ; and he would be bound, 
There was not his like that year in twenty parishes round. 



Strong of his hands, and strong on his legs, but still of his tongue ! 
I ought to have gone before him : I wonder he went so young. 
I cannot cry for him, Annie : I have not long to stay ; 
Perhaps I shall see him the sooner, for he lived far away. 
23 



354 THE GRANDMOTHER. 

v. 
Why do you look at me, Annie? you think I am hard and cold ; 
But all my children have gone before me, I am so old : 
I cannot weep for Willy, nor can I weep for the rest ; 
Only at your age, Annie, I could have wept with the best. 

VI. 

For I remember a quarrel I had with your father, my dear, 
All for a slanderous story, that cost me many a tear. 
I mean your grandfather, Annie : it cost me a world of woe, 
Seventy years ago, my darling, seventy years ago. 

VII. 

For Jenny, my cousin, had come to the place, and I knew right well 
That Jenny had tript in her time : I knew, but I would not tell. 
And she to be coming and slandering me, the base little liar ! 
But the tongue is a fire as you know, my dear, the tongue is a fire. 

VIII. 

And the parson made it his text that week, and he said likewise, 
That a lie which is half a truth is ever the blackest of lies, 
That a lie which is all a lie may be met and fought with outright, 
But a lie which is part a truth is a harder matter to fight. 

IX. 

And Willy had not been down to the farm for a week and a day ; 
And all things look'd half-dead, tho' it was the middle of May. 
Jenny, to slander me, who knew what Jenny had been ! 
But soiling another, Annie, will never make one's self clean. 

x. 

And I cried myself wellnigh blind, and all of an evening late 

I climb'd to the top of the garth, and stood by the road at the gate. 

The moon like a rick on fire was rising over the dale, 

And whit, whit, whit, in the bush beside me chirrupt the nightingale. 



All of a sudden he stopt : there past by the gate of the farm, 
Willy, — he didn't see me, — and Jenny hung on his arm. 
Out mto the road I started, and spoke I scarce knew how ; 
Ah, there 's no fool like the old one — it makes me angry now. 

XII. 

Willy stood up like a man, and look'd the thing that he meant ; 
Jenny, the viper, made me a mocking courtesy and went. 
And 1 said, " Let us part : in a hundred years it '11 all be the same, 
You cannot love me at all, if you love not my good name." 



And he turn'd, and I saw his eyes all wet, in the sweet moonshine : 
" Sweetheart, I love you so well that your good name is mine. 
And what do I care for Jane, let her speak of you well or ill ; 
But marry me out of hand : we too shall be happy still." 



THE GRANDMOTHER, 355 

XIV. 

" Marry you, Willy ! " said I, " but I needs must speak my mind, 
And I fear you '11 listen to tales, be jealous and hard and unkind." 
But he turn'd and claspt me in his arms, and answer' d, " No, love, no " ; 
Seventy years ago, my darling, seventy years ago. 

xv. 
So Willy and I were wedded : I wore a lilac gown ; 
And the ringers rang with a will, and he gave the ringers a crown. 
But the first that ever I bare was dead before he was born, 
Shadow and shine is life, little Annie, flower and thorn. 

XVI. 

That was the first time, too, that ever I thought of death. 

There lay the sweet little body that never had drawn a breath. 

I had not wept, little Anne, not since I had been a wife ; 

But I wept like a child that day, for the babe had fought for his life. 

XVII. 

His dear little face was troubled, as if with anger or pain : 

I look'd at the still little body — his trouble had all been in vain. 

For Willy I cannot weep, I shall see him another morn : 

But I wept like a child for the child that was dead before he was born. 

XVIII. 

But he cheer' d me, my good man, for he seldom said me nay : 
Kind, like a man, was he ; like a man, too, would have his way : 
Never jealous — not he : we had many a happy year ; 
And he died, and I could not weep — my own time seem'd so near. 

XIX. 

But I wish'd it had been God's will that I, too, then could have died : 
I began to be tired a little, and fain had slept at his side. 
And that was ten years back, or more, if I don't forget : 
But as to the children, Annie, they 're all about me yet. 

xx. 

Pattering over the boards, my Annie who left me at two, 
Patter she goes, my own little Annie, an Annie like you : 
Pattering over the boards, she comes and goes at her will, 
While Harry is in the five-acre and Charlie ploughing the hill. 

xxi. 
And Harry and Charlie, I hear them too — they sing to their team : 
Often they come to the door in a pleasant kind of a dream. 
They come and sit by my chair, they hover about my bed — 
I am not always certain if they be alive or dead. 

XXII. 

And yet T know for a truth, there 's none of them left alive ; 
For Harry went at sixty, your father at sixty-five : 
And Willy, my eMest born, at nigh threescore and ten ; 
I knew them all as babies, and now they 're elderly men. 



356 NORTHERN FARMER. 



For mine is a time of peace, it is not often I grieve ; 
I am oftener sitting at home in my father's farm at eve : 
And the neighbors come and laugh and gossip, and so do I ; 
I find myself often laughing at things that have long gone by. 



To be sure the preacher says, our sins should make us sad : 
But mine is a time of peace, and there is Grace to be had; 
And God, not man, is the Judge of us all when life shall cease ; 
And in this Book, little Annie, the message is one of Pe3.ce. 



And age is a time of peace, so it be free from pain, 
And happy has been my life ; but I would not live it again. 
I seem to be tired a little, that 's all, and long for rest ; 
Only at your age, Annie, I could have wept with the best. 



So Willy has gone, my beauty, my eldest-born, my flower ; 
But how can I weep for Willy, he has but gone for an hour, - 
Gone for a minute, my son, from this room into the next ; 
I, too, shall go in a minute. What time have I to be vext ? 



And Willy's wife has written, she never was over-wise. 
Get me my glasses, Annie : thank God that 1 keep my eyes. 
There is but a trifle left you, when I shall have past away. 
But stay with the old woman now : you cannot have long to stay. 



NORTHERN FARMER. 

OLD STYLE. 



Wheer 'asta bean saw long and mea liggin' 'ere aloan? 

Noorse ? thoort nowt o' a noorse : whoy, doctor 's abean an' agoan : 

Says that I moant 'a naw moor yaale : but I beant a fool : 

Git ma my yaale, for I beant a-gooin' to break my rule. 



Doctors, they knaws nowt, for a says what 's nawways true : 
Naw soort o' koind o' use to saay the things that a do. 
I 've 'ed my point o' yaale ivry noight sin' I bean 'ere, 
An' I 've 'ed my quart ivry market-noight for foorty year. 



Parson 's a bean loikewoise, an' a sittin 'ere o' my bed. 
"The amoighty 's a taakin o' you to 'issen, my friend." 'a said, 
An' a towd ma my sins, an 's toithe were due, an' I gied it in hond ; 
I done my duty by un, as I 'a done by the lond. 



NORTHERN FARMER. 35/ 

IV. 

I arn'd a ma' bea. I reckons I 'annot sa mooch to larn. 

But a cost oop, thot a did, 'boot Bessy Marris's barn. 

Thof a knaws I hallus voated wi' Squoire an' choorch an staate, 

An' i' the woost o' toimes I wur niver agin the raate. 

v. 
An' I hallus corned to 's choorch afoor my Sally wur dead, 
An' 'eerd un a bummin' awaay loike a buzzard-clock* ower my yead, 
An' I niver knaw'd whot a mean'd but I thowt a 'ad summut to saay, 
An I thowt a said whot a owt to 'a said an' I corned awaay. 

VI. 

Bessy Marris's barn ! tha knaws she laaid it to mea. 
Mowt 'a bean, mayhap, for she wur a bad un, shea. 
'Siver, I kep un, I kep un, my lass, tha mun understand ; 
I done my duty by un as I 'a done by the lond. 

VII. 

But Parson a comes an' a goos, an' a says it easy an' freea 

" The amoighty 's a taakin o' you to 'issen, my friend," says 'ea. 

I weant saay men be loiars, thof summun said it in 'aaste : 

But a reads wonn sarmin a weeak, an' I 'a stubb'd Thornaby waaste. 

VIII. 

D' ya moind the waaste, my lass ? naw, naw, tha was not born then ; 

Theer wur a boggle in it, I often 'eerd un mysen ; 

Moast loike a butter-bump, t for I 'eerd un aboot an aboot, 

But I stubb'd un oop wi' the lot, and raaved an' rembled un oot. 

IX. 

Reaper's it wur ; fo' they fun un theer a laaid on 'is faace 
Doon i' the woild 'enemies X afoor I corned to the plaace. 
Noaks or Thimbleby — toner 'ed shot an as dead as a naail. 
Noaks wur 'ang'd for it oop at 'soize — but git ma my yaale. 

x. 

Dubbut looak at the waaste : theer war n't not fead for a cow ; 
Nowt at all but bracken an' fuzz, an' looak at it now — 
War n't worth nowt a haacre, an' now theer 's lots o' fead, 
Fourscore yows upon it an' some on it doon in sead. 

XI. 

Nobbut a bit on it 's left, an' I mean'd to 'a stubb'd it at fall, 
Done it ta-year I mean'd, an' runn'd plow thruff it an' all, 
If godamoighty an' parson 'uq\ nobbut let ma aloan, 
Mea, wi' haate oonderd haacre o' Squoire's an' load o' my oan. 

XII. 

Do godamoighty knaw what a 's doing a-taakin' o' mea? 
I beant wonn as saws 'ere a bean an' yonder a pea ; 
An' Squoire 'ull be sa mad an' all — a' dear a' dear ! 
And I 'a monaged for Squoire come Michaelmas thirty year. 

• Cockchafer. t Bittern. J Anemones. 



•358 



TITHONUS. 



A mowt 'a taaken Joanes, as 'ant a 'aapoth o' sense, 
Or a mowt 'a taaken Robins — a niver mended a fence : 
But godamoighty a moost taake mea an' taake ma now 
Wi 'auf the cows to cauve an' Thornaby holms to plow ! 

XIV. 

Looak 'ow quoloty smoiles when they sees ma a passin' by, 

Says to thessen naw doot "what a mon a be sewer-ly ! " 

For they knaws what I bean to Squoire sin fust a corned to the 'All ; 

I done my duty by Squoire an' I done my duty by all. 



Squoire *s in Lunnon, an' summun I reckons 'ull 'a to wroite, 
For who 's to howd the lond ater mea thot muddles ma quoit ; 
Sartin-sewer I bea, thot a weant niver give it to Joanes, 
Noither a moant to Robins — a niver rembles the stoans. 



But summun 'ull come ater mea mayhap wi' 'is kittle o' steam 
Huzzin' an' maazin' the blessed fealds wi' the Divil's oan team. 
Gin I mun doy I mun doy, an' loife they says is sweet, 
But gin I mun doy I mun doy, for I couldn abear to see it. 



What atta stannin' theer for, an' doesn bring ma the yaale ? 
Doctor 's a 'tottler, lass, and a 's hallus i' the owd taale ; 
I weant break rules for Doctor, a knaws naw moor nor a floy ; 
Git ma my yaale I tell tha, an' gin I mun doy I mun doy. 



TITHONUS. 

The woods decay, the woods decay 

and fall, 
The vapors weep their burthen to the 

ground, 
Man comes and tills the field and lies 

beneath, 
And after many a summer dies the 

swan. 
Me only cruel immortality 
Consumes : I wither slowly in thine 

arms, 
Here at the quiet limit of the world, 
A white-hair' d shadow roaming like a 

dream 
The ever silent spaces of the East, 
Far-folded mists, and gleaming halls 

of morn. 
Alas ! for this gray shadow, once a 

man — 



So glorious in his beauty and thy 

choice, 
Who madest him thy chosen, that he 

_ seem'd 
To his great heart none other than a. 

God! 
I ask'd thee, " Give me immortality." 
Then didst thou grant mine asking 

with a smile, 
Like wealthy men who care not how 

they give. 
But thy strong Hours indignant work'd 

their wills, 
And beat me down and marr'd and 

wasted me, 
And tho' they could not end me, left 

me maim'd 
To dwell in presence of immortal 

youth, 
Immortal age beside immortal youth, 
And all I was, in ashes. Can thy love, 



TITHONUS. 



359 



Thy beauty, make amends, tho' even 

now, 
Close over us, the silver star, thy 

guide, 
Shines in those tremulous eyes that 

fill with tears 
To hear me ? Let me go : take back 

thy gift : 
Why should a man desire in any 

way 
To vary from the kindly race of men, 
Or pass beyond the goal of ordi- 
nance 
Where all should pause, as is most 

meet for all ? 

A soft air fans the cloud apart ; there 

comes 
A glimpse of that dark world where I 

was born. 
Once more the old mysterious glimmer 

steals 
From thy pure brows, and from thy 

shoulders pure, 
And bosom beating with a heart re- 

new'd. 
Thy cheek begins to redden thro' the 

gloom, 
Thy sweet eyes brighten slowly close 

to mine, 
Ere yet they blind the stars, and the 

wild team 
Which love thee, yearning for thy yoke, 

arise, 
And shake the darkness from their 

loosen'd manes, 
And beat the twilight into flakes of 

fire. 

Lo ! ever thus thou growest beauti- 
ful 

In silence, then before thine answer 
given 

Departest, and thy tears are on my 
cheek. 

Why wilt thou ever scare me with 

thy tears, 
And make me tremble lest a saying 

learnt, 
In days far-off, on that dark earth, be 

true ? 
"The Gods themselves cannot recall 

their gifts." 



Ay me ! ay me ! with what another 

heart 
In days far-off, and with what other 

eyes 
I used to watch — if I be he that 

watch'd — 
The lucid outline forming round thee ; 

saw 
The dim curls kindle into sunny rings ; 
Changed with thy mystic change, and 

felt my blood 
Glow with the glow that slowly crim- 
son' d all 
Thy presence and thy portals, while I 

lay, 
Mouth, forehead, eyelids, growing 

dewy-warm 
With kisses balmier than half-opening 

buds 
Of April, and could hear the lips that 

kiss'd 
Whispering I knew not what of wild 

and sweet, 
Like that strange song I heard Apollo 

sing, 
While I lion like a mist rose into tow- 
ers. 

Yet hold me not forever in thine 

East : 
How can my nature longer mix with 

thine ? 
Coldly thy rosy shadows bathe me, 

cold 
Are all thy lights, and cold my wrin- 
kled feet 
Upon thy glimmering thresholds, when 

the steam 
Floats up from those dim fields about 

the homes 
Of happy men that have the power to 

die, 
And grassy barrows of the happier 

dead. 
Release me, and restore me to the 

ground ; 
Thou seest all things, thou wilt see my 

grave : 
Thou wilt renew thy beauty morn by 

morn ; 
I earth in earth forget these empty 

courts, 
And thee returning on thy silver 

wheels. 



360 



THE VOYAGE. 



THE VOYAGE. 

We left behind the painted buoy 

That tosses at the harbor-mouth ; 
And madly danced our hearts with joy, 

As fast we fleeted to the South : 
How fresh was every sight and sound 

On open main or winding shore ! 
We knew the merry world was round, 

And we might sail forevermore. 

11. 
Warm broke the breeze against the 
brow, 
Dry sang the tackle, sang the sail : 
The Lady's-head upon the prow 
Caught the shrill salt, and sheer'd 
the gale. 
The broad seas swell'd to meet the 
keel, 
And swept behind : so quick the run, 
We felt the good ship shake and reel, 
We seem'd to sail into the Sun ! 



How oft we saw the Sun retire, 

And burn the threshold of the night, 
Fall from his Ocean-lane of fire, 

And sleep beneath his pillar'd light ! 
How oft the purple-skirted robe 

Of twilight slowly downward drawn, 
As thro' the slumber of the globe 

Again we dash'd into the dawn ! 



New stars all night above the brim 

Of waters lighten'd into view ; 
They climb'd as quickly, for the rim 

Changed every moment as we flew. 
Far ran the naked moon across 

The houseiess ocean's heaving field, 
Or flying shone, the silver boss 

Of her own halo's dusky shield ; 



The peaky islet shifted shapes, 

High towns on hills were dimly seen, 
We past long lines of Northern capes 

And dewy Northern meadows green. 
We came to warmer waves, and deep 

Across the boundless east we drove, 
Where those long swells of breaker 
sweep 

The nutmeg rocks and isles of clove. 



By peaks that flamed, or, all in shade, 

Gloom 'd the low coast and quivering 
brine 
With ashy rains, that spreading made 

Fantastic plume or sable pine ; 
By sands and steaming flats, and floods 

Of mighty mouth, we scudded fast, 
And hills and scarlet-mingled woods 

Glow'd for a moment as we past. 

VII. 

O hundred shores of happy climes, 

How swiftly stream'd ye by the bark ! 
At times the whole sea burn'd, at times 

With wakes of fire we tore the dark ; 
At times a carven craft would shoot 

From havens hid in fairy bowers, 
With naked limbs and flowers and fruit, 

But we nor paused for fruits nor 
flowers. 

VIII. 

For one fair Vision ever fled 

Down the waste waters day and night, 
And still we follow'd where she led, 

In hope to gain upon her flight. 
Her face was evermore unseen. 

And fixt upon the far sea-line ; 
But each man murmured, " O my 
Queen, 

I follow till I make thee mine." 



And now we lost her, now she gleam'd 

Like Fancy made of golden air, 
Now nearer to the prow she seem'd 

Like Virtue firm, like Knowledge i'air, 
Now high on waves that idly burst 

Like Heavenly Hope she crown'd 
the sea, 
And now, the bloodless point reversed, 

She bore the blade of Liberty. 

x. 

And only one among us — him 

We pleased not — he was seldom 
pleased : 
He saw not far : his eyes were dim : 

But ours he swore were all diseased. 
" A ship of fools," he shriek'd in spite, 

"A ship of fools," he sneer'd and 
wept. 
And overboard one stormy night 

He cast his body, and on we swept. 



THE FLOWER. — THE SAILOR-BOY. 



361 



And never sail of ours was furl'd, 

Nor anchor dropt at eve or morn ; 
We loved the glories of the world, 

But laws of nature were our scorn ; 
For blasts would rise and rave and 
cease, 

But whence were those that drove 
the sail 
Across the whirlwind's heart of peace, 

And to and thro' the counter-gale ? 

XII. 

Again to colder climes we came, 

For still we follow'd where she led : 
Now mate is blind and captain lame, 

And half the crew are sick or dead. 
But blind or lame or sick or sound 

We follow that which flies before : 
We know the merry world is round, 

And we may sail forevermore. 



IN THE VALLEY OF CAU- 
TERETZ. 

All along the valley, stream that 
flashest white, 

Deepening thy voice with the deepen- 
ing of the night, 

All along the valley, where thy waters 
flow, 

I walk'd with one I loved two and 
thirty years ago. 

All along the valley while I walk'd to- 
day, 

The two and thirty years were a mist 
that rolls away ; 

For all along the valley, down thy 
rocky bed 

Thy living voice to me was as the 
voice of the dead, 

And all along the valley, by rock and 
cave and tree, 

The voice of the dead was a living 
voice to me. 



THE FLOWER. 
Once in a golden hoi* 

I cast to earth a seed. 
Up there came a flower, 

The people said, a weed. 



To and fro they went 
Thro' my garden-bower, 

And muttering discontent 
Cursed me and my flower. 

Then it grew so tall 

It wore a crown of light, 

But thieves from o'er the wall 
Stole the seed by night. 

Sow'd it far and wide 

By every town and tower, 

Till all the people cried, 
" Splendid is the flower." 

Read my little fable : 
He that runs may read. 

Most can raise the flowers now, 
For all have got the seed. 

And some are pretty enough, 
And some are poor indeed ; 

And now again the people 
Call it but a weed. 



REQUIESCAT. 

Fair is her cottage in its place, 

Where yon broad water sweetly 
slowly glides. 

It sees itself from thatch to base 
Dream in the sliding tides. 

And fairer she, but ah how soon to die ! 

Her quiet dream of life this hour 
may cease. 
Her peaceful being slowly passes by 

To some more perfect peace. 



THE SAILOR-BOY. 

He rose at dawn and, fired with hope, 
Shot o'er the seething harbor-bar, 

And reach'd the ship and caught the 
rope, 
And whistled to the morning star. 

And while he whistled long and loud 
He heard a fierce mermaiden cry, 

" O Boy, tlio' thou art young and proud, 
I see the place where thou wilt lie. 

" The sands and yeasty surges mix 
In caves about the dreary bay, 



362 



THE ISLET. — THE RINGLET. 



And on thy ribs the limpet sticks, 
And in thy heart the scrawl shall 
play." 

" Fool," he answer'd, "death is sure 
To those that stay and those that 
roam, 

But I will nevermore endure 

To sit with empty hands at home. 

" My mother clings about my neck, 
My sisters crying, ' Stay for shame ' ; 

My father raves of death and wreck, 
They are all to blame, they are all to 
blame. 

" God help me ! save I take my part 
Of danger on the roaring sea, 

A devil rises in my heart, 

Far worse than any death to me." 



THE ISLET. 

" Whither, O whither, love, shall we 

go, 
For a score of sweet little summers or 

so?" 
The sweet little wife of the singer said 
On the day that follow'd the day she 

was wed ; 
" Whither, O whither, love, shall we 

And the singer shaking his curly head 
Turn'd as he sat, and struck the keys 
There at his right with a sudden crash, 
Singing, " And shall it be over the seas 
With a crew that is neither rude nor 

rash, 
But a bevy of Eroses apple-cheek'd, 
In a shallop of ciystal ivory-beak'd, 
With a satin sail of a ruby glow, 
To a sweet little Eden on earth that I 

know, 
A mountain islet pointed and pe;'.k'd ; 
Waves on a diamond shingle dash, 
Cataract brooks to the ocean run, 
Fairily-delicate palaces shine 
Mixt with myrtle and clad with vine, 
And overstream'd and silvery-streak'd 
With many a rivulet high against the 

Sun 
The facets of the glorious mountain 

flash 
Above the valleys of palm and pine." 



" Thither, O thither, love, let us go." 

" No, no, no ! 

For in all that exquisite isle, my dear, 

There is but one bird with a musical 

throat, 
And his compass is but of a single note, 
That it makes one weary to hear." 
" Mock me not ! mock me not ! love, 

let us go." 

" No, love, no. 

For the bud ever breaks into bloom 

on the tree, 
And a storm never wakes on the lonely 

sea, 
And a worm is there in the lonely 

wood, 
That pierces the liver and blackens 

the blood, 
And makes it a sorrow to be." 



THE RINGLET. 

" Your ringlets, your ringlets, 

That look so golden -gay, 
If you will give me one, but one, 

To kiss it night and day, 
Then never chilling touch of Time 

Will turn it silver-gray ; 
And then shall I know it is all true 

gold 
To flame and sparkle and stream as of 

old, 
Till all the comets in heaven are cold, 

And all her stars decay." 
"Then take it, love, and put it by; 
This cannot change, nor yet can I." 



" My ringlet, my ringlet. 

That art so golden-gay. 
Now never chilling touch of Time 

Can turn thee silver-gray ; 
And a lad may wink, and a girl may 
hint, 

And a fool may say his say ; 
For my doubts and fears were all amiss, 
And I swear henceforth by this and 

this, 
That a doubt will only come for a kiss, 

And a fear to be kiss'd away." 



A WELCOME TO ALEXANDRA. — ODE. 



363 



" Then kiss it, love, and put it by : 
If this can change, why so can I." 



Ringlet, O Ringlet, 

I kiss'd you night and day, 
And Ringlet, O Ringlet, 

You still are golden-gay, 
But Ringlet, O Ringlet, 

You should be silver-gray : 
For what is this which now I 'm told, 

1 that took you for true gold, 

She that gave you 's bought and sold, 
Sold, sold. 

2. 
O Ringlet, O Ringlet, 

She blush'd a rosy red, 
When Ringlet, O Ringlet, 

She dipt you from her head, 
And Ringlet, O Ringlet, 

She gave you me, and said, 
" Come, kiss it, love, and put it by: 
If this can change, why so can I." 
O fie, you golden nothing, fie 
You golden lie. 

3- 
O Ringlet, O Ringlet, 

I count you much to blame, 
For Ringlet, O Ringlet, 

You put me much to shame, 
So Ringlet, O Ringlet, 

I doom you to the flame. 
For what is this which now I learn, 
Has given all my faith a turn? 
Burn, you glossy heretic, burn, 
Burn, burn. 



A WELCOME TO ALEXANDRA. 

March 7, 1863. 

Sea-kings' daughterfrom overthe sea, 

Alexandra ! 

Saxon and Norman and Dane are we, 

But all of us Danes in our welcome of 

thee, 

Alexandra ! 
Welcome her, thunders of fort and 

of fleet ! 
Welcome her, thundering cheer of the 

street I 



Welcome her, all things youthful and 

sweet, 
Scatter the blossom under her feet ! 
Break, happy land, into earlier flowers ! 
Make music, O bird, in the new-bud- 

dedbowers ! 
Blazon your mottoes of blessing and 

prayer ! 
Welcome her, welcome her, all that is 

ours ! 
Warble, O bugle, and trumpet, blare ! 
Flags, flutter out upon turrets and 

towers ! 
Flames, on the windy headland flare ! 
Utter your jubilee, steeple and spire ! 
Clash, ye beils, in the merry March 

air ! 
Flash, ye cities, in rivers of fire ! 
Rush to the roof, sudden rocket, and 

higher 
Melt into the stars for the land's desire ! 
Roll and rejoice, jubilant voice, 
Roll as a ground-swell dash'd on the 

strand, 
Roar as the sea when he welcomes the 

land, 
And welcome her, welcome the land's 

desire, 
The sea-kings' daughter as happy as 

fair, 
Blissful bride of a blissful heir, 
Bride of the heir of the kings of the 

sea — 
O joy to the people, and joy to the 

throne, 
Come to us, love us, and make us your 

own : 
For Saxon or Dane or Norman we, 
Teuton or Celt, or whatever we be, 
We are each all Dane in our welcome 

of thee, 

Alexandra ! 



ODE SUNG AT THE OPENING 
OF THE INTERNATIONAL 
EXHIBITlOxNT. 

Uplift a thousand voices full and 
sweet, 

In this wide hall with earth's inven- 
tion stored, 

And praise th' invisible universal 
Lord, 



364 



THE CAPTAIN. 



Who lets once more in peace the na- 
tions meet, 
Where Science, Art, and Labor have 
outpour' d 

Their myriad horns of plenty at our 
feet. 

O silent father of our Kings to be 
Moum'd in this golden hour of jubi- 
lee, 
For this, for all, we weep our thanks 
to thee ! 

The world-compelling plan was thine, 

And lo ! the long laborious miles, 

Of Palace ; lo ! the giant aisles, 

Rich in model and design ; 

Harvest-tool and husbandry, 

Loom and wheel and engin'ry, 

Secrets of the sullen mine, 

Steel and gold, and corn and wine, 

Fabric rough, or Fairy fine, 

Sunny tokens of the Line, 

Polar marvels, and a feast 

Of wonder out of West and East, 

And shapes and hues of Art divine ! 

All of beauty, all of use. 

That one fair planet can produce. 

Brought from under every star, 
Blown from over every main, 
And mixt, as life is mixt with pain, 

The works of peace with works of 
war. 

O ye, the wise who think, the wise who 
reign, 

From growing commerce loose her 
latest chain, 

And let the fair white-winged peace- 
maker fly 

To happy havens under all the sky, 

And mix the seasons and the golden 
hours, 

Till each man finds his own in all 
men's good, 

And all men work in noble brother- 
hood, 

Breaking their mailed fleets and armed 
towers, 

And ruling by obeying Nature's pow- 
ers, 

And gathering all the fruits of peace 
and crown'd with all her flowers. 



A DEDICATION. 

Dear, near and true — no truer Time 

himself 
Can prove you, tho' he make you 

evermore 
Dearer and nearer, as the rapid of life 
Shoots to the fall — take this, and pray 

that he, 
Who wrote it, honoring your sweet 

faith in him, 
May trust himself; and spite of praise 

and scorn, 
As one who feels the immeasurable 

world. 
Attain the wise indifference of the wise ; 
And after Autumn past — if left to pass 
His autumn into seeming -leafless 

days — 
Draw toward the long frost and long- 
est night, 
Wearing his wisdom lightly, like the 

fruit 
Which in our winter woodland looks a 

flower.* 



THE CAPTAIN. 

A LEGEND OF THE NAVY. 

He that only rules by terror 

Doeth grievous wrong. 
Deep as Hell I count his error, 

Let him hear my song. 
Brave the Captain was : the seamen 

Made a gallant crew, 
Gallant sons of English freemen, 

Sailors bold and true. 
But they hated his oppression, 

Stern he was and rash ; 
So for every light transgression 

Doom'd them to the lash. 
Day by day more harsh and cruel 

Seem'd the Captain's mood. 
Secret wrath like smother'd fuel 

Burnt in each man's blood. 
Yet he hoped to purchase glory, 

Hoped to make the name 
Of his vessel great in story, 

Wheresoe'er he came. 
So they past by capes and islands, 

Many a harbor-mouth, 

* The fruit of the Spindle-tree (Euony- 
mus Europueus). 



THREE SONNETS TO A COQUETTE. 



3*5 



Sailing under palmy highlands 

Far within the South. 
On a day when they were going 

O'er the lone expanse, 
In the North, her canvas flowing, 

Rose a ship of France. 
Then the Captain's color heighten'd, 

Joyful came his speech : 
But a cloudy gladness lighten'd 

In the eyes of each. 
"Chase," he said: the ship flew for- 
ward, 

And the wind did blow ; 
Stately, lightly, went she Norward, 

Till she near'd the foe. 
Then they look'd at him they hated, 

Had what they desired : 
Mute with folded arms they waited — 

Not a gun was fired. 
But they heard the foeman's thunder 

Roaring out their doom ; 
All the air was torn in sunder, 

Crashing went the boom, 
Spars were splinter'd, decks were 
shatter' d, 

Bullets fell like rain ; 
Over mast and deck were scatter'd 

Blood and brains of men. 
Spars were splinter'd ; decks were 
broken : 

Every mother's son — 
Down they dropt — no word was spo- 
ken — 

Each beside his gun. 
On the decks as they were lying, 

Were their faces grim. 
In their blood, as they lay dying, 

Did they smile on him. 
Those, in whom he had reliance 

For his noble name, 
With one smile of still defiance 

Sold him unto shame. 
Shame and wrath his heart confounded, 

Pale he turn'd and red, 
Till himself was deadly wounded 

Falling on the dead. 
Dismal error ! fearful slaughter ! 

Years have wander' d by, 
Side by side beneath the water 

Crew and Captain lie ; 
There the sunlit ocean tosses 

O'er them mouldering, 
And the lonely seabird crosses 

With one waft of the wing. 



THREE SONNETS TO A 
COQUETTE. 

Caress'd or chidden by the dainty 

hand, 

And singing airy trifles this or that, 

Light Hope at Beauty's call would 

perch and stand, 

And run thro' every change of sharp 

and flat : 
And Fancy came and at her pillow 
sat, 
When Sieep had bound her in his rosy 
band, 
And chased away the still-recurring 
gnat, 
And woke her with a lay from fairy 

land. 
But now they live with Beauty less 
and less, 
For Hope is other Hope and wan- 
ders far, 
Nor cares to lisp in love's delicious 
creeds ; 
And Fancy watches in the- wilderness, 
Poor Fancy sadder than a single star, 
That sets at twilight in a land of 
reeds. 

2. 
The form, the form alone is eloquent ! 
A nobler yearning never broke her 

rest 
Than but to dance and sing, be gayly 
drest, 
And win all eyes with all accomplish- 
ment : 
Yet in the waltzing-circle as we went, 
My fancy made me for a moment 

blest 
To find my heart so near the beau- 
teous breast 
That once had power to rob it of con- 
tent. 
A moment came the tenderness of tears, 
The phantom of a wish that once 
could move, 
A ghost of passion that no smiles 
restore — ■ 
For ah ! the slight coquette, she can- 
not love, 
And if you kiss'd her feet a thousand 
years, 
She still would take the praise, 
and care no more. 



366 



ON A MOURNER. — SONG. 



Wan Sculptor weepest thou to take the 
cast 
Of those dead lineaments that near 
thee lie ? 

sorrowest thou, pale Painter, for the 

past, 
In painting some dead friend from 

memory ? 
Weep on : beyond his object Love can 

last: 
His object lives : more cause to weep 

have I : 
My tears, no tears of love, are flowing 

fast, 
No tears of love, but tears that Love 

can die. 

1 pledge her not in any cheerful cup, 
Nor care to sit beside her where she 

sits — 
Ah pity — hint it not in human 
tones, 
But breathe it into earth and close it up 
With secret death forever, in the pits 
Which somegreen Christmas crams 
with weary bones. 



ON A MOURNER. 

Nature, so far as in her lies, 

Imitates God, and turns her face 
To every land beneath the skies, 
• Counts nothing that she meets with 
base, 
But lives and loves in every place ; 

2. 

Fills out the homely quick-set screens, 
And makes the purple lilac ripe, 

Steps from her airy hill, and greens 
The swamp, where hums the drop- 
ping snipe, 
With moss and braided marish-pipe ; 

3- 

And on thy heart a finger lays, 

Saying, " Beat quicker, for the time 

Is pleasant, and the woods and ways 
Are pleasant, and the beech and lime 
Put forth and feel a gladder clime." 



And murmurs of a deeper voice, 
Going before to some far shrine, 



Teach that sick heart the stronger 
choice, 
Till all thy life one way incline 
With one wide will that closes thine. 

5- 
And when the zoning eve has died 

Where yon dark valleys wind forlorn, 

Come Hope and Memory, spouse and 

bride, 

From out the borders of the morn, 

With that fair child betwixt them 

born. 

6. 
And when no mortal motion jars 

Theblacknessround the tombing sod, 
Thro' silence and the trembling stars 
Comes Faith from tracts no feet have 

trod, 
And Virtue, like a household god 

7- 

Promising empire ; such as those 

That once at dead of night did greet | 

Troy's wandering prince, so that herose I 
With sacrifice, while all the fleet ' 

Had rest by stony hills of Crete. 



SONG. 

Lady, let the rolling drums 
Beat to battle where thy warrior stands : 
Now thy face across his fancy comes, 

And gives the battle to his hands. 

Lady, let the trumpets blow, 
Clasp thy little babes about thy knee : 
Now their warrior father meets the foe, 

And strikes him dead for thine and 
thee. 



SONG. 

Home they brought him slain with 
spears. 
They brought him home at even-fall : 
All alone she sits and hears 
Echoes in his empty hall, 

Sounding on the morrow. 

The Sun peep'd in from open field, 
The boy began to leap and prance, 
Rode upon his father's lance, 

Beat upon his father's shield — 

" O hush, my joy, my sorrow." 



BO A DICE A. 367 



EXPERIMENTS. 



BOADICEA. 

While about the shore of Mona those Neronian legionaries 
Burnt and broke the grove and altar of the Druid and Druidess, 
Far in the East Boadicea, standing loftily charioted, 
Mad and maddening all that heard her in her fierce volubility, 
Girt by half the tribes of Britain, near the colony Camulodune, 
Yell'd and shriek'd between her daughters o'er a wild confederacy. 

" They that scorn the tribes and call us Britain's barbarous populaces, 
Did they hear me, would they listen, did they pity me supplicating? 
Shall I heed them in their anguish ? shall I brook to be supplicated ? 
Hear Icenian, Catieuchlanian, hear Coritanian, Trinobant ! 
Must their ever-ravening eagle's beak and talon annihilate us? 
Tear the noble heart of Britain, leave it gorily quivering ? 
Bark an answer, Britain's raven ! bark and blacken innumerable, 
Blacken round the Roman carrion, make the carcass a skeleton, 
Kite and kestrel, wolf and wolf kin, from the wilderness, wallow in it, 
Till the face of Bel be brighten 'd, Taranis be propitiated. 
Lo their colony half-defended ! lo their colony, Camulodune ! 
There the horde of Roman robbers mock at a barbarous adversary. 
There the hive of Roman liars worship a gluttonous emperor-idiot. 
Such is Rome, and this her deity : hear it, Spirit of Cassivelaiin ! 

" Hear it, Gods ! the Gods have heard it, O Icenian, O Coritanian ! 
Doubt not ye the Gods have answer'd, Catieuchlanian, Trinobant. 
These have told us all their anger in miraculous utterances, 
Thunder, a flying fire in heaven, a murmur heard aerially, 
Phantom sound of blows descending, moan of an enemy massacred, 
Phantom wail of women and children, multitudinous agonies. 
Bloodily flow'd the Tamesa rolling phantom bodies of horses and men ; 
Then a phantom colony smoulder' d on the refluent estuary; 
Lastly yonder yester-even, suddenly giddily tottering — 
There was one who watch'd and told me — down their statue of Victory fell. 
Lo their precious Roman bantling, lo the colony Camulodune, 
Shall we teach it a Roman lesson ? shall we care to be pitiful ? 
Shall we deal with it as an infant ? shall we dandle it amorously ? 

" Hear Icenian, Catieuchlanian, hear Coritanian, Trinobant I 
While I roved about the forest, long and bitterly meditating, 
There I heard them in the darkness, at the mystical ceremony, 
Loosely robed in flying raiment, sang the terrible prophetesses. 
* Fear not, isle of blowing woodland, isle of silvery parapets ! 
Tho' the Roman eagle shadow thee, tho' the gathering enemy narrow thee, 



368 EXPERIMENTS. 

Thou shalt wax and he shall dwindle, thou shalt be the mighty one yet ! 

Thine the liberty, thine the glory, thine the deeds to be celebrated, 

Thine the myriad-rolling ocean, light and shadow illimitable, 

Thine the lands of lasting summer, many-blossoming Paradises, 

Thine the North and thine the South and thine the battle-thunder of God.' 

So they chanted : how shall Britain light upon auguries happier? 

So they chanted in the darkness, and there cometh a victory now. 

" Hear Icenian, Catieuchlanian, hear Coritanian, Trinobant ! 
Me the wife of rich Prasutagus, me the lover of liberty. 
Me they seized and me they tortured, me they lash'd and humiliated, 
Me the sport of ribald Veterans, mine of ruffian violators ! 
See they sit, they hide their faces, miserable in ignominy ! 
Wherefore in me burns an anger, not by blood to be satiated. 
Lo the palaces and the temple, lo the colony Camulodune ! 
There they ruled, and thence they wasted all the flourishing territory, 
Thither at their will they haled the yellow-ringleted Britoness — 
Bloodily, bloodily fall the battle-axe, unexhausted, inexorable. 
Shout Icenian, Catieuchlanian, shout Coritanian, Trinobant, 
Till the victim hear within and yearn to hurry precipitously 
Like the leaf in a roaring whirlwind, like the smoke in a hurricane whirl'd. 
Lo the colony, there they rioted in the city of Ciinobeline ! 
There they drank in cups of emerald, there at tables of ebony lay, 
Rolling on their purple couches in their tender effeminacy. 
There they dwelt and there they rioted ; there — there — they dwell no more. 
Burst the gates, and burn the palaces, break the works of the statuary, 
Take the hoary Roman head and shatter it. hold it abominable, 
Cut the Roman boy to pieces in his lust and voluptuousness, 
Lash the maiden into swooning, me they lash'd and humiliated, 
Chop the breasts from off the mother, dash the brains of the little one out, 
Up my Britons, on my chariot, on my chargers, trample them under us." 

So the Queen Boadicea, standing loftily charioted, 
Brandishing in her hand a dart and rolling glances lioness-like^ 
Yell'd and shrieked between her daughters in her fierce volubility, 
Till her people all around the royal chariot agitated, 
Madly dash'd the darts together, writhing barbarous lineaments, 
Made the noise of frosty woodlands, when they shiver in January, 
Roar'd as when the rolling breakers boom and blanch on the precipices, 
Yell'd as when the winds "of winter tear an oak on a promontory. 
So the silent colonv hearing her tumultuous adversaries 
Clash the darts and on the buckler beat with rapid unanimous hand, 
Thought on all her evil tyrannies, all her pitiless avarice, 
Till she felt the heart within her fall and flutter tremulously, 
Then her pulses at the clamoring of her enemy fainted away. 
Out of evil evil nourishes, out of tyranny tyranny buds. 
Ran the land with Roman slaughter, multitudinous agonies. 
Perish'd many a maid and matron, many a valorous legionary. 
Fell the colony, city, and citadel, London, Verulam, Camulodune. 



IN QUANTITY. 369 

IN QUANTITY. 

MILTON. 

A Icaics. 

O mighty-mouth'd inventor of harmonies, 
O skill' d to sing of Time or Eternity, 
God-gifted organ-voice of England, 

Milton, a name to resound for ages ; 
Whose Titan angels, Gabriel, Abdiel, . 
Starr'd from Jehovah's gorgeous armories, 
Tower, as the deep-domed empyrean 

Rings to the roar of an angel onset — 
Me rather all that bowery loneliness, 
The brooks of Eden mazily murmuring, 
And bloom profuse and cedar arches 
Charm, as a wanderer out in ocean, 
Where some refulgent sunset of India 
Streams o'er a rich ambrosial ocean isle, 

And crimson-hued the stately palmwoods 
Whisper in odorous heights of even. 



Hendecasyllabics. 

O you chorus of indolent reviewers, 

Irresponsible, indolent reviewers, 

Look, I come to the test, a tiny poem 

All composed in a metre of Catullus, 

All in quantity, careful of my motion, 

Like the skater on ice that hardly bears him, 

Lest I fall unawares before the people, 

Waking laughter in indolent reviewers. 

Should I flounder awhile without a tumble 

Thro' this metrification of Catullus, 

They should speak to me not without a welcome, 

All that chorus of indolent reviewers. 

Hard, hard, hard is it, only not to tumble, 

So fantastical is the dainty metre. 

Wherefore slight me not wholly, nor believe me 

Too presumptuous, indolent reviewers. 

O blatant Magazines, regard me rather — 

Since I blush to belaud myself a moment — 

As some rare little rose, a piece of inmost 

Horticultural art, or half coquette-like 

Maiden, not to be greeted unbenignly. 



24 



37 o EXPERIMENTS. 



SPECIMEN OF A TRANSLATION OF THE ILIAD 
IN BLANK VERSE. 

So Hector said, and sea-like roar'd his host ; 
Then loosed their sweating horses from the yoke 
And each beside his chariot bound his own ; 
And oxen from the city, and goodly sheep 
In haste they drove, and honey-hearted wine 
And bread from out the houses brought, and heap'd 
Their firewood, and the winds from off the plain 
Roll'd the rich vapor far into the heaven. 
And these all night upon the * bridge of war 
Sat glorying ; many a fire before them blazed : 
As when in heaven the stars about the moon 
Look beautiful, when all the winds are laid, 
And every height comes out, and jutting peak 
And valley, and the immeasurable heavens 
Break open to their highest, and all the stars 
Shine, and the Shepherd gladdens in his heart : 
So many a fire between the ships and stream 
Of Xanthus blazed before the towers of Troy, 
A thousand on the plain ; and close by each 
Sat fifty in the blaze of burning fire ; 
And champing golden grain, the horses stood 
Hard by their chariots, waiting for the dawn.t 

Iliad Ylll. 542-561. 

* Or, ridge. 

f Or more literally, — 
And eating hoary grain and pulse the steeds 
Stood by their cars, waiting the throned morning. 



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